


Snow Snake

by Liora_Holmes



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aged Up but still Underage Stark Sisters, Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Divergence - Post Red Wedding, Dorne, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Menstruation, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, R Plus L Equals J
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-05
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2020-01-05 09:10:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18362957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liora_Holmes/pseuds/Liora_Holmes
Summary: In the Riverlands, after the Hound is grievously wounded, Arya Stark finds herself captured by Dornishmen sent to the Riverlands to locate Gregor Clegane. Instead of going to Braavos to learn to fight, Arya finds the perfect partner in vengeance in Prince Oberyn Martell. Once they meet each other, their partnership will change the course of Westerosi history dramatically.This is a a book-canon AU with only two fundamental changes to canon before the story begins: (1) Arya and Sansa are aged up to 15 and 16 going on 17 at the start of the story respectively, because this will likely eventually be an Oberyn/Arya fic and otherwise it squicks me out too much and (2) Arya had interactions ala the show as Tywin Lannister's cupbearer at Harrenhal, because those scenes are just too much fun to pass up in exploring these characters, and this is fanfic and we can do what we want.





	1. Chapter 1/Prologue: The Inn at the Crossroads

After the fact, those who wrote histories of Roberts Rebellion, the War of the Five Kings, the Second War of Conquest, and the Great Battle of the Dawn would note the unusual fact that meetings of import kept happening at a little, tucked away Inn near the juncture of the Kingsroad and the River Road and the High Road. It was where the Mad King Joffrey Baratheon had first been bitten by a direwolf, sparking his and his mother’s unrelenting hatred for the North. It was where Catelyn Tully had kidnapped Tyrion Lannister. Where Brienne of Tarth had first fought alongside Gendry Waters, and eventually recruited him for the fight in the North, making them two of the greatest heroes of the war. It had been where Daenerys Targaryen had finally signed the peace treaties that made her Queen of all Seven Kingdoms.

And during the reign of Joffrey I, it had been where Arya Stark had met her first Dornishman, and changed the course of her own life dramatically.

She and the Hound had left the bodies of Polliver, the Tickler, and the pimply squire to die in the common room of the inn. Needle was back on Arya’s hip, where it should be. Where it belonged. The innkeeper and guests had fled after the bloody fight downstairs. But the Hound was wounded. They had bandaged the wounds on his thighs and ribs, and cleaned them well enough, but it was his ear that smelled so bad, smelled like it was festering. He had wanted to ride for Saltpans immediately. But they’d only gotten a mile from the Inn before he’d slumped over in his saddle. Stranger wouldn’t carry There was nowhere to go but back. She’d helped him back through the bloody bodies and made him rest in the empty rooms upstairs at the Inn while his fever raged. She would leave him soon. He had told her to, told her gruffly he could take care of himself. She had a feeling he didn’t mean it. She wasn’t decided yet whether she would leave him here to die. He wasn’t on her list, not anymore. Not really. Leaving him was killing him. Giving him the gift of mercy, as he was so often pleading for her to do, was killing him. She was not sure he was a man who deserved to die anymore. But she couldn’t save him either.

Her internal debate had gone on days too long, as she tried to tend to him. The smell of the bodies downstairs were putrefying. There had been no sign of passersby leaving the Kingsroad and approaching the Inn…not yet. But there would be. It was abandoned, but it wouldn’t be long until someone tried to shelter here, burned out roof be damned. A rotting, sagging shelter was better than none at all from the cold and the wet. She’d be discovered here. And with a sword at her belt and King Joffrey’s Hound with her, but too weak to fight beside her, there were precious few happy endings she could imagine to her story.

She had finally gotten the huge man to eat a little salt beef and hard tack from their provisions, and now he was asleep. She kept waiting for the fever to break, but it hadn’t for three days. It was pitch black outside now, too late for any travelers to find the inn tonight. She’d sleep for the evening, she decided, but this would be her last night here. She’d leave at first light. If the Hound’s fever broke in the night and he could come with her, so be it. If not, he could die here. He was too big to share a bed with, and she didn’t want to sleep in another room. This was the only one with a roof that didn’t leak, and the rain was pouring down, making dull wet noises on the thatch above. So she curled up and fell asleep in front of the dying fire.

Arya awoke to the sound of men downstairs. _Shit_. There was no way out of the Inn except through those men, through the front door. She’d waited too long to leave. Now she would die. The only question would be how much she would suffer first. Dawn was just peaking over the fields outside the window. There were no shouts. Whoever was downstairs, they were trying to be quiet. That, to her, seemed more threatening than if they had been loud. They were looking for something, not just stomping through looking for shelter.  She tiptoed across the room to try and wake Sandor. The Hound was sleeping like the dead – but she quickly held her hand out over his mouth to ensure that he was not, in fact, dead. She felt his hot breath on the back of her hand. Not yet. Even better, his face was drenched as if he’d just swum across the Trident, but his skin was cool to the touch. His fever had broken. He might live, but he wasn’t going to be any help anytime soon. And try and she might, her small arms could barely even move his huge form, let alone wake him.

 

She pressed her ear to the door. She cursed herself for not barring it the night before. It hadn’t seemed important. If she barred it now, though, they’d hear. She heard a cough from the men downstairs, a curse and a complaint about the smell. Another voice shushed the first man. A third muttered irritably that the dead men couldn’t hear them. They had accents she did not recognize. Then, footsteps on the stairs. Arya drew Needle and crouched next to the door. _What do we say to the God of Death_ …

 The door opened. _Not Today_ she whispered in her mind, and then shot out quick as a snake, staying low, stabbing the man in front of her in the leg, or where she thought the leg was, he was wearing queer long orange robes. She felt Needle hit flesh and heard a yelp from the man. Then, she rushed past the second man on the stairs, barely looking at him, catching a flash of yellow out of the corner of her eye. “FUCK” she heard from the top of the stairs when she heard the first man stumble and hit a wall. “Daemon!” She could see the light of the open door. Gods, but it smelled terrible down here. She sprinted for the light…and found herself lifted off the ground and staring an olive skinned, dark haired man in the face. He knocked Needle out of her hand, and she screamed and tried to bite at his hold. He turned her and held her in strong arms against his chest. She kicked back, trying to find his groin, as the man from the stairs came down into the common room.

The voice from upstairs yelled “There’s another up here! A big one! Sick in bed, looks like. Do you have the boy in hand? Little arsehole stabbed my ankle!”

“Got him, Dez!” yelled the one who was holding Arya. The man from the stairs, wearing a yellow, red, and black doublet under his mail, with sandy colored breeches, spoke, his voice clearly one of command. “Dez, secure the man upstairs. Ser Myles, do you have the little one in hand?” 

Arya continued to kick and scream, and finally made contact with the man’s groin – a knight’s groin, apparently. Ser Myles swore and loosened his grip, but suddenly the man from the stairs was upon her too, strong arms holding her hands behind her back and forcing her to the floor. “Let me go! Let me go!”

“Hush boy, you’re not going anywhere, so you might as well stop trying. Answer our questions and we’ll not harm you.” _At least they still think I’m a boy_. Maybe she could still get out of this. “I’m no one m’lord! I don’t know anything!” she yelled. “Just sheltering with my father for the night! He’s sick! We’ll be out of your way soon as he wakes!”

The man above her kept his hold on her back – firm, but not painful - and studied her for a moment. “No, not boy. Girl. Yes?”

“I’m a boy!” Arya thought of the Hound’s threats of rapers. Above all else, strange men needed to think that she was a boy.  

The man chuckled. “I can see how Northerners would be fooled, girl, but we are Dornishmen. We are used to seeing women fighters in men’s clothing. You are good with your little sword, my lady. Where did you get it?”

“Fuck you!” She was spared further questions when she heard a roar from upstairs. _The Hound_. And then a yell from the man upstairs, Dez. “A little help, Sers?”.

Myles raced up the stairs while Dameon dragged her up with him. He huffed in impatience. “If you walk, this will be easier for both of us, my Lady. I mean you no harm.” _My Lady_. _He knows I’m a girl, but he can’t know I’m highborn. Maybe he just calls all women my lady_ , _like Gendry._ Arya sullenly allowed herself to be led along up the stairs by the knight. Better to save her strength for later.

She arrived to a very angry, and somewhat delirious Sandor Clegane being restrained by the man called Dez and the one called Ser Myles. When he saw her, the Hound stopped pushing so hard against the men. “Are you alright, boy, did they hurt you?”

“No, they just took my sword!” the Hound glowered at her. “Not another word out of you, I’ll handle this.” Arya felt like his words sounded mighty bold for a wounded man lying in his smallclothes in bed.

Ser Daemon’s tensed behind her as he looked at the Hound. “You” he said menacingly, “Are Sandor Clegane. The gods have blessed us with quite the coincidence, finding you here. I seek your brother.”

The Hound barked out a laugh “HAH. His men are downstairs dead. As for the giant bastard himself, I’ve no bloody idea where he is.”

Daemon pulled Arya back towards the door, which he barred, then he pushed her into a chair in the room, nodding at Ser Myles, who replaced him in holding Arya. Then, Daemon drew his sword and held it to the Hound’s neck. “And what horrors have you visited on this girl, Clegane?”

“NOTHING!” Arya found herself yelling from her chair. “He didn’t hurt me! He was taking me to my aunt. Don’t hurt him.” If anyone was going to kill the Hound, it should be her. Not these strangers.

“Shut up, girl…”

Ser Daemon eyed Arya curiously and stepped away from the hound for a moment. “Perhaps it would do us all some good to have some introductions.” He bowed formally to Arya, still held down in the chair. “Good lady, my name is Ser Daemon Sand, second sword to Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne. And you are?”

The Hound barked a laugh. “Martell? You serve Martell? Wolf Girl, you’re in luck. I’m a bloody goner, but here are your bloody knights in shining armor to rescue you.”

Ser Daemon raised an eyebrow at her. “Wolf Girl?” Arya said nothing. The Hound spoke next. “How much money will you give me for her, Sers? For Little Lady Arya Stark of Winterfell?”

He was giving her away. Selling her. To men she didn’t know. “Fuck you” she yelled at him. Clegane laughed. The three Dornishmen were looking at her like she had just sprouted a second head.

“No girl, you don’t understand. Tell her, bastard, who is Oberyn Martell’s greatest nemesis?”

Ser Daemon Sand smiled grimly at the Hound. “Tywin Lannister. And those in his employ. Your brother. And you.”

“I don’t work for the Lions anymore, ask them yourselves.” He turned to Arya, wincing as he moved. “Girl. These are enemies of your enemies. Closest thing you’ll find to friends out here. Go on with them, I’m no use to you anyway. Slit my throat and let me die here, give me that mercy at least.”

Daemon walked back over to Arya and crouched in front of her, searching her eyes. “You certainly have the coloring of a Stark. Does this Dog speak true, my Lady? Are you the daughter of Lord Eddard Stark?”

“Tell them, wolf girl” said the Hound. “They’ll be as good protection from rapers as any, and they won’t send you back to the Lions any more than I would, I’d think.”

Ser Daemon was eyeing her expectantly. Arya swallowed hard and nodded. As soon as she did, Ser Daemon stood, and then bowed formally. “My Lady, I apologize for our treatment of you earlier. Had I known you were a lady of such renown…forgive me. We were told you were with your sister in Kings Landing, captives of the Lannisters. I take it that is not the case?”

“She’s there. I’m here. And I can’t go back there. Let me on my way and I’ll head north on my own.”

“My lady” said Ser Daemon kindly. “Your…companion is wounded grievously. You do not look altogether well yourself.” It was true. Her wounds were not as serious, but Arya had a deep gash on her shoulder that likely needed new bandages, and a smaller one along her jawline that would likely scar. “You will not survive out here long on your own.” His mouth twitched. “Despite your skill with your little sword. You need a pack, She-wolf. Let me take you to my Prince. We will keep you safe. We do not hurt little girls in Dorne.”

Arya looked at Sandor. He looked like he was about to slip back out of consciousness. “Go ahead, girl, tell the nice pretty knight your list. Dornishman, listen to who she wants to kill…”

Arya recited. “King Joffrey, Ser Gregor, Dunsen, Raff the Sweetling, Ser Ilyn Payne, Ser Meryn Trant, Queen Cersei…”

“Think you can help her with that list, Sers?” said Sandor drowsily.

“Aye” said the man called Dez. “I think Oberyn would be very interested in helping out with some on that list…”

“Hush, Dez.” Said Ser Daemon. He unsheathed his sword and laid it across his knees. “Lady Arya Stark, I, Ser Daemon Sand, pledge myself as your protector. No harm will come to you in my care, I vow. Let me deliver you to my Prince, Oberyn Martell. He was a friend of your father’s.”

Arya looked at the Hound, who was now passed out and snoring on the pillows. She did seem to be out of options. “Can I keep my sword?”

Daemon laughed. “Of course, my lady. So long as you do not use it against me. You Northerners take your honor seriously, yes? Will you make that sacred oath? On the grave of your father that you will not attack me unawares if I return your blade?”

Arya thought for a moment. She could always get away while this one was sleeping, kill the other two. “I swear.”

Next thing she knew, she was back in a very familiar position, sharing a saddle with a warrior, his arms holding her gently in place. But she was leaving the Hound behind. Going to meet a Prince.


	2. Chapter 2: Womanhood

            Their party reached Lord Harroway’s Town by afternoon, and Ser Daemon sent a Raven from the small Rookery. The town was flooded, as it had been a few days before when Arya and the Hound had ridden through. Ser Daemon did not let Arya out of his sight, though he was never rude. He simply beckoned her to follow him everywhere. Short of using her sword, which Ser Daemon had given back to her and even complimented during their short bursts of conversation on the way, Arya could not see an obvious way out of the Dornishmen’s custody.

 

            She asked to see the raven that Ser Daemon sent to the Prince, fully expecting to be laughed out of the tower by the three men. To her surprise, he handed it to her. Her face must have shown her shock because Ser Daemon looked at her quizzically. “It concerns you, why would I not show it to you?”

 

            _My Prince: Although the larger prey you sent us to hunt has eluded us, our travels have been fruitful. We have found a dying Dog in a barn and, with him, of all things, a little grey and black whelp he did not sire. How strange to find this little girl pup who stinks of the city here in the Riverlands instead of with the alley cats and her littermate. She is a fierce little beast but has been feral in these parts for some time. She has even killed a few cats. She would have been happy to continue with us to hunt our prey, but we thought perhaps the Lady Ellaria’s daughters would enjoy her if we brought her back to Dorne where she could play more safely in the Water Gardens. If you delay yourself at Maidenpool, perhaps you can meet her and decide for yourself. We will reach there in a fortnight._

_Yours,_

_D_

The meaning was obvious to Arya but would not be immediately apparent to someone who intercepted the message. “Who is Lady Ellaria?”

 

“Lady Ellaria is the Prince’s paramour, and the mother of his four youngest daughters. The line means to say that you might be safer with them in Dorne than remaining with us here in the North for the wedding.”

 

Arya smiled a little. “This isn’t the North. But I suppose everything feels like the North if you’re from Dorne.”

 

“Precisely.”

 

Arya read through the letter again. _A Dying Dog_. “Ser Daemon, could we…could we send someone to look after the Hound? And did you leave him the ransom he asked?”

 

Daemon laughed. “No, my lady, I could hardly use Oberyn Martell’s money to pay a ransom to a Clegane for the safety of a little girl. That would be a very good way to lose my head.” Arya’s shoulders slumped. She had no idea why she wanted to make sure the Hound survived. But she had tended him for three days. And his fever had broken. It would be almost a waste if he were to die now, after all her work…”He is not his brother. He is not responsible for the Mountain’s crimes, only his own. _His_ crimes are mine to avenge but…there is no honor in letting him die of fever when he could be revived and fight me on even footing someday soon.”

 

Lord Deziel Dalt – which she had learned was the full name of the man who Ser Daemon had called Dez – let out a hearty belly laugh. “Oberyn will love this one. So will the Ladies Nymeria and Obara. A new little Sand Snake in the making, if they have anything to say about it.”

 

At the name Nymeria, Arya’s ears perked up. “Nymeria? Like the queen?”

 

“Aye” said Dez, “One of Oberyn’s natural daughters. Do they not tell tales of the Sand Snakes up in the frigid North?”

 

Arya shook her head. Ser Daemon sent the raven and promised to tell her more of the Sand Snakes on the road. Dez and Myles went off to find the Septon in Harroway Town, and he was dispatched to look after the man in the upstairs room at the Inn. They were back in the saddle after that, and soon, the three men had finished explaining about Oberyn’s eight bastard daughters, all of whom fought with weapons, and none of whom were married. Arya could not help but feel a flicker of hope at her good fortune. Women warriors, not just one, but many. Bastards, to be sure; but maybe even as a trueborn lady in Dorne, she would be allowed to be closer to what she wanted.

 

Her feelings of good fortune died slightly when she set about trying to remember everything she knew about House Martell. She had remembered quickly why it was that Oberyn Martell would so hate Gregor Clegane and Tywin Lannister – the same reason her father did. The rape and murder of Prince Oberyn's sister, Elia Martell, and the butchering of her children. But on further reflection, Arya had to admit as well that it had been a Stark woman – one that everyone said Arya was a spitting image of – who had tempted Rhaegar Targaryen away from his marriage bed with Elia Martell in the first place. She found herself worried that even if her family was not on the top of Prince Oberyn’s list of enemies, nor were the Starks exactly in his good graces.

 

The first night on the road to Maidenpool, she shared a simple supper of stew and crackers with the men, listening to them trade old stories. When the tent was up, Ser Daemon offered to sleep without blankets so that she could have his bedroll, but she refused, curling up instead in her own cloak in the corner, as far from the men in the tent as she could. She did not sleep. She wasn’t that stupid. True, none of these men had leered at her, or made the uncomfortable comments that she was used to hearing out on the road from men who knew her gender – but nor could she trust them not to attack her unawares. She clutched Needle and watched them sleep. The next day, she was drooping in Ser Daemon’s saddle.

 

“You did not sleep last night.” He said it as a statement, not a question.

 

“Yes, I did, my Lord.”

 

“I’m not a Lord, my lady. A knight, but no Lord. Daemon _Sand_ , remember? My father is heir to Godsgrace, but my mother was a village girl he fell in love with.” Arya thought of her own father. He, too, had fathered a bastard in Dorne. Apparently, such a thing was quite common, Arya thought darkly. She did not like thinking about the time her father had apparently so fully abandoned his honor and disgraced her mother, no matter how much she loved her brother Jon.

 

“There is no need to lie to me, my Lady.” Continued Daemon Sand matter-of-factly. “You did not sleep because you feared us. We are strange men to you, and you are the only woman in our party. I understand. You will need to sleep sometime in the next fortnight, however, or you will fall off my horse and I will be forced to carry you over my shoulders like a sack of potatoes.” He grinned at her. Arya was not much for handsome men, but even she had to admit that Daemon Sand was the kind of man who might make her swoon, if she was prone to swooning. He had a head of dark, wavy hair and the deepest brown eyes she’d ever seen. His smile lit up his olive face, and he offered it often.

 

“What you fear…what I assume you fear, the rape and torment that happens to girls on these roads…I would like to find a way to assure you that you need not fear it from us. In Dorne…” he paused. “I will not say such things do not happen. There are evil men everywhere. But among Dornishmen, it considered the vilest crime, no matter who the woman is, highborn or lowborn, a crime that any man would kill another for committing. It is not like here in the North, where men will take an unwilling woman to bed and his friends will ignore his sins. If Dez or Myles were struck by some madness and tried to approach you in that way, rest assured that I would kill them before they touched you as surely as I would if they were coming at you with a sword.”

 

Ser Myles, who was riding near them, joined in. “And I can assure you as well, Lady Arya, that not only would I personally kill Daemon if he came towards you with any unwanted interest, but also I promise you it’s simply quite unlikely. Right now, I doubt any girl would be of interest to him. All he can dream of is a certain princely cock…”

 

Daemon shot the older man a dirty look as Dez howled in laughter. Although it was strange to hear men joke so openly about bedding other men – not just insult each as cocksuckers, but tease about it like men did about their friends fancying pretty girls – it was reassuring to hear the men laughing and carrying on. They reminded her more of Robb and Jon and Theon then – though Ser Myles looked closer to her father’s age than her brothers’ – and less like the murderers and criminals that she had gotten used to in the Riverlands. That night, she slept fitfully, but she did sleep. And none of the men came anywhere near her. Before she fell asleep, she recited her names. If the men heard, they did not comment.

 

By the third day, the men had encouraged her to practice with them. They had clearly initially meant it as a bit of fun, to indulge the little girl with the little sword. But when Arya quickly brought a somewhat distracted Dez to the ground, Needle to his neck, they started to train with her in more earnest, giving her pointers and tips, and letting her try out their heavier swords. After that first sparring match, the days became easier to get through. The men shared fighting stories and were kind to her. The Hound would have told her to be very suspicious. They had no cause to be kind to her, and she could not figure out what they wanted from her. Yet try as she might, she could not find a hint of malice in their treatment of her. It was a struggle to remain vigilant. She found herself slipping into friendliness and had to force herself to remember that she was a captive, not a little sister.

 

Her luck ran out in another way one morning a week later, when she went away from the camp to make water and found blood in her smallclothes. She was still a few days shy of her 15th nameday – it was sooner than seemed fair. She knew her breasts had been getting larger since she left Kings Landing, and that she’d grown an inch or so – her clothes did not fit the way they used to. The Hound had gruffly mentioned this a few weeks back, in the form of a threat, telling her that if her moonblood started and she didn’t tell him, he wouldn’t be able to get her what she’d need to take care of it, and soon they’d have real wolves setting upon them in the nights who smelled the blood, so she best bloody tell him if it happened. It would have been bad enough for it to happen when she was with the Hound, but at least she knew he would not shame her for it. But to have it happen among strangers…Arya felt sick to her stomach. There was a dull, horrible ache there that she had never felt before, but she also felt her insides twist with emotion.

 

She had asked her mother about her moonblood before she left Winterfell. Her mother had promised that by the time it happened, they would be together again, and if they were not, she would have Septa Mordane and Sansa to help her. When she’d left Kings Landing, Sansa had not yet flowered, and she was just past 16, and their mother had flowered around that age as well. Lady Stark had kissed her hair back in Winterfell and told her that she was her little girl for some time yet, and that she needn’t fear her moonblood soon. That had been more than a year ago. And now her mother and the Septa were dead, and in the eyes of all of Westeros, she was no longer a little girl anymore, but a woman ready to be bedded and married. She had never felt more alone.

 

She felt that her own body had betrayed her, to bring this to her now, here, in the wilderness. She felt her eyes burn, and tried to force back the tears, but found herself unable to calm herself as she normally would. So she sat against a tree crying big, hot tears. Her body ached; her soul felt like it was going to rip its way out of her heart. Her muscles felt like they had all tensed at once, and everything suddenly felt completely hopeless and impossible.

She knew the men would be looking for her soon – she was not far from the camp, and Ser Daemon always kept her in his eyeline when she went to make water, though he did not stare or leer. She heard them talking about her at the camp. They could probably hear her crying. Soon, it was Ser Myles who approached, walking a little stiffly, looking back at the other men on his way. He crouched down beside her. She felt weak, and stupid, and young as she cried in front of him.

 

“Lady Arya” he said gently. “Would you tell me what troubles you?” she could not bring herself to do so. There was a physical problem to take care of, but she didn’t even know what she needed, and upon realizing that, she sobbed all the harder. Something to stop up the blood, she supposed. No one had bothered explaining it to her. Ser Myles reached out a tentative hand and began rubbing her back as she cried. He gave her an awkward smile. “Dez and Daemon sent me because I’m the only one of us with a wife and daughters. I am sorry you are out here alone with just us men. My own daughter is a little younger than you. I would never want her to be without her mother at…an important time.” He raised an eyebrow at her knowingly. “Is this perhaps the first such important time?”

 

Arya felt the color rise in her cheeks as she sobbed. Then, Ser Myles handed her a handkerchief to dry her tears, and after that, a much larger wad of linen cut into strips, clearly cut up from one of the men’s tunics. He coughed awkwardly. “I confess I do not know much more about what to do than this. But we will ride the horses doubly fast and get you to Lady Ellaria and her friends. They will take care of you.” He was still rubbing her back and his kindness made Arya think of her father, setting off a new wave of tears. “I’m sorry.” She choked out. “I don’t know why I can’t stop crying.” Ser Myles laughed a little at that. “I have been married for fifteen years, my Lady. I assure you, the tears are a part of it. You are not going mad.” Arya was a little relieved at that. She certainly felt crazy. Ser Myles stood and offered her a hand. She took it and winced as she stood. “Come.” He said. “I am sure rest would feel better than a day’s hard riding, but the sooner we get you to Maidenpool, the sooner we can get you with womenfolk”. Arya had never in her life wanted to be with womenfolk instead of men. Not once. But now it seemed like a priority. With an awkward bow and a “I will, uh, leave you….to it,” the middle-aged knight left her in the woods to put the linen in her smallclothes as best she could.

 

The men were kinder than she could imagine any group of men being about the whole thing, other than maybe her own brothers. They did not mention it at all, did not make jokes, and were only slightly stiff in talking to her. At Ser Daemon’s consistent urging, however, they did ride the horses fast and hard, and within two days, arrived in Maidenpool well past dark, making their way to a small two-story house. As she got down off the horse, feeling completely exhausted and sore, Ser Daemon asked her whether he could carry her inside. Too tired to refuse, Arya found herself carried by strong arms into a warm, well-lit house, and set in a large bed in a room at the top of the stairs. She could have drifted off to sleep then, until she realized with frustration that she needed to change the linens in her smallclothes. She sat up in the bed and saw Daemon in the hall talking to one of the most striking women that Arya had ever seen. Her dark skin was accented by the sleek crimson dress she wore, and her black curls were pulled into an intricate hairstyle. Her ears and chest and arms glistened with golden jewelry. Arya’s eyes narrowed. She and the Hound shared an opinion of beautiful people. The only people she had found less trustworthy than pretty men were pretty women. But next thing she knew, the woman was shooing Ser Daemon away, and had entered the room where Arya was. She closed the door gently behind her, and met Arya’s eyes and gave a wide, warm smile.

“Lady Arya, my name is Ellaria Sand. I am _so_ glad that you have found your way to the Dornish. Come. Let us take care of you, little she-wolf.”


	3. Chapter 3: News

            The Dornishwomen had been as kind to her as the Dornshimen had been, and as she drifted off to a sound sleep, in clean clothes for the first time in months, she wondered how it was that these olive skinned nobles who feared the cold reminded her so much of the people Winterfell.

 

            The beautiful woman Ellaria Sand had swept into the room looking like a queen but did not have any pretense or haughtiness to match. She had clucked over Arya and tended to her, calling up a hot bath and showing her the best way to wrap the linens to catch the blood, and commanding two other women, who she introduced as Lady Larra and Lady Myria, to make her tea, and heat a warm cloth to lay over her tender belly. She chattered away pleasantly whether Arya responded or not, never seeming to expect a response, but happily engaging when Arya gave her one. She mentioned that her eldest daughter – the eldest of her snakelings – was of an age with Arya, and had recently bled for the first time herself. She bemoaned that Arya had been alone on the road without her mother. Arya explained that the men had been kind to her – she was not one to compliment people who held her captive, but it seemed only fair – and when she explained that it had been Ser Myles, and not Ser Daemon who had spoken to her about her moonblood, Ellaria had burst into laughter.

 

            “The second to the prince of Dorne, fiercest young swordsman in the land, and still afraid of a little moonblood. _Men!_ ” She had rolled her eyes exaggeratedly, and Arya had found herself giggling. She couldn’t remember the last time she had giggled like this, and certainly not among womenfolk. In Harrenhal, the women had been half beaten, starved, and raped. In Acorn Hall, the woman had been dull and lifeless, and in Kings Landing, they had been dangerous. But these women seemed entirely uninterested in her identity, her house, even her story. They asked her nothing of where she had been, or why. Even better, when they had allowed her to undress for her bath, turning away when she asked for privacy – though Lady Myria made a joke about prudish Northerners – Ellaria asked her whether she would prefer a dress or breeches to sleep in and wear the next day.

 

            The silk-clad woman held up Arya’s dirty breeches, tunic, and smallclothes a bit gingerly. “These, I fear, I cannot save, my dear. They will need to be _burned_. I would drop them out the window right now if I did not think the people of Maidenpool would run us out of town for the smell.” He eyes twinkled with teasing laughter. “But Larra’s son has breeches and tunics that would fit you, and her daughter has shifts and dresses you can borrow if you prefer.” Soon, Arya found herself in her preferred standard of dress – a shift to sleep in, but soft black breeches and a clean tunic waiting for her in the morning on a chair near the bed.

 

            Arya was profoundly exhausted. Between the riding and her moonblood, every muscle in her body cried out for rest. As Ellaria settled her into bed, she asked whether Arya would prefer she stayed here in the room with her. She stroked Arya’s wet hair. “You have been without your mother and sister a long time. We would be happy to stay with you and provide you some companionship” When Arya declined, Ellaria kissed her forehead and pulled the covers over her, tucking her into bed like no one had done for her since she was a child. It was only then that Arya realized that in the soft business of the womenfolk, there were questions that needed to be answered.

 

            “Prince Oberyn. Is he here? What does he want to do with me?” she asked with alarm. Ellaria smiled down at her. “For now, pup, let me worry about the Prince of Dorne. He means you no harm, but he is an annoyingly energetic man who will have many questions. You would do well with some rest before you speak to him.”

 

            As if summoned, she was startled by a knock at the door. A man’s voice she did not recognize came through. “Ellaria. Is the girl clean and decent? I would like to speak her before she sleeps.” Ellaria rolled her eyes and got up to go to the door. She opened the bar, and Arya saw the door pushed open, but Ellaria stood to block the man from coming in. She could not see him. She listened carefully to the conversation.

 

            “Ellaria, you are kind to tend the girl, but we cannot know she is who she says she is, if she was travelling with the Hound. Let me see her and talk to her. I would not have her killing us all in our sleep.”

 

            Ellaria made an exasperated sigh. “It does not matter tonight if she is Arya Stark or not, Oberyn, though I think she is – what would she gain from that particular lie? Right now, she is a very tired girl, with no mother to care for her, no older than our Elia, and she needs rest and the presence of womenfolk. You can pepper her with your endless questions over lunch tomorrow, my love.”

 

            She heard the man chuckle indulgently beyond the door. “Fine. I will let you mother her. I know how you miss our girls. But I will need to speak to her first thing in the morning.”

 

            Ellaria’s tinkling laughter came again. “We will see if you want to do anything first thing in the morning after I come to bed. Off with you.”

 

            Ellaria came back and kissed her forehead goodnight, promising that Ser Daemon waited outside her door should she need anything in the night. For the first time since she was in Kings Landing, Arya slept alone in a bedchamber, with her sword cradled to her, and she slept more soundly than she had since Winterfell. When Arya woke again, the sun was high in the sky, and she realized it was well past time to find out what exactly the Prince of Dorne would think of her.

\--

 

Ser Daemon was sitting on the floor outside her room in the narrow hallway when Arya emerged, clean and dressed, having tried her best to tame her rats nest of brown hair. Her boots were drying by the fire, but were nowhere near ready to wear, so she padded out barefoot. Daemon smiled at her as he stood and gave a slight bow. “You look well, my Lady. I am glad to see you clean and refreshed.”

            “Did you sleep on the floor? I’m sorry. I’m sure you are tired too.” Ser Daemon laughed. “I act as my Prince commands. Though I do think I will steal your place in that bed behind you after I take you to him.” He offered his arm formally. “Shall we, Lady Stark?”

 

            He walked Arya down to a kitchen, where there was a bustling scene at a long table. Lady Larra herself bustled in the kitchen, along with a teenage girl and boy who, by their coloring, she presumed were Larra’s children. A man with his back to the door seemed to be tasting a soup. At the table, Ellaria sat with other colorfully dressed men and women, passing food. There was a hum of pleasant chatter in the noontime sunlight. It looked thoroughly domestic. The man at the stove pronounced the stew he was tasting ready. Ser Daemon cleared his throat. At the door formally and conversation stilled, as everyone looked to them.  

 

            “Prince Oberyn, my Lords and Ladies, may I present to you Princess Arya Stark of Winterfell, daughter of Eddard Stark, younger sister of the Boy Wolf. Lady Arya, may I present Prince Oberyn Nymeros Martell, the Red Viper of Dorne.” _Princess?_ Thought Arya. _Of the North,_ she supposed _._ She had not heard the title used to refer to her often, and certainly not since Robb’s death. To her surprise, Daemon gestured to the man at the stove when he introduced Oberyn.

 

            The Prince of Dorne stepped away from the stove, wiped his hands on a towel, and met Arya’s eyes. His own eyes were pools of blackness. He looked much younger than her father, though she knew they were close in age, and had close cropped dark curls and a neatly trimmed beard. He moved smoothly and dangerously like his namesake. She felt her cheeks blaze under sheer intensity of his gaze as he stepped very close to her, almost toe to toe, examining her face. Then, unexpectedly, the same eyes flashed with mirth, and he burst into laughter. “Well, I suppose I do not have to worry that you are a Lannister assassin. There is no one you could be _but_ Arya Stark. I had heard from my ears at court that She-wolf’s beauty had been reborn in the form of young niece, but I admit I did not expect the resemblance to be quite so uncanny!” the Prince entered a deep bow. “Dorne is at the North’s service, Princess. I regret that my brother Doran did not permit me to ride North to join forces with your brother after the Lannisters betrayed your father. As Ser Daemon has informed you, we share enemies, Princess Arya. I mean to offer the North what service I can, now that the Gods have been so helpful as to deliver you into my presence. I hope that we can speak of our families’ shared goals.”

 

            Arya stomach wrenched at the sudden horrible comprehension of her own station. She had not been in the company of nobles in months. Thoughts flashed through her head, cataloging her family. So many dead. Robb and her parents were gone now. Jon was at the wall, stripped of what little authority he would have ever had as a bastard, now that he was a man of the Watch. She could not know whether Sansa truly still lived in Kings Landing – certainly she could not trust the news from the capital if the king was still claiming she herself was present at court. She had to face the fact that her little brothers were likely dead, if the Ironborn claimed Winterfell, as she and the Hound had heard on the road. The Hound had barked at her when they’d heard the rumor that she should expect that Bran and Rickon were captured or hanged. She had never cried for them, not in front of the Hound, nor had not yet grown used to the idea, or added their killers to her list, not until she was sure, but her avoidance of her grief made their deaths no less probable.

 

And given all that…that there was a possibility, a horrible possibility, one that she had quite literally had nightmares about as a child, that _she_ was her father’s heir, _Robb’s_ heir, or at least close to it, and that she had before her a Prince of one of the bloody seven kingdoms offering Dorne’s service to the North, to her brother…This was not something she had been prepared for. She was, the _last_ Stark child who would have expected to ever speak for Winterfell. _No, not a Stark child._ She corrected herself in further horror. A Stark _woman_. A woman grown. As of three days ago. Every sentence that her mother and father had ever started with “when you are a woman grown…” was now. Here. Today. And she was barefoot and alone in borrowed boys’ clothes surrounded by strangers. Gods, she should have at least taken up Lady Larra on the offer of a dress. Her mother would be horrified with her, and for once, she was horrified at her own lack of ladylike grace as well. Even Sansa would have been better at this than she would be, that much had been made clear in Kings Landing. But she was alone.

 

            Her eyes must have gone wide as saucers, and the silence must have stretched on far too long. because it was Ellaria who spoke next. “Oberyn, you’re scaring the girl, she doesn’t need to be involved in your schemes…”

 

            That would not do. The Princess of the North could not be a scared little girl. Arya snapped to her senses and tried to channel her father’s steely resolve. “I am no scared girl, Lady Ellaria,” she said curtly, her words blessedly coming out with more confidence than she felt. She couldn’t curtsy in breeches, so she bowed. “Prince Oberyn, forgive me my discourtesy. I have had a long journey since leaving Kings Landing. I would appreciate any news you have of my family and would welcome the chance to speak to you of our shared interests. I am aware of House Martell’s hatred of the Lannisters. I believe the Tywin Lannister’s debt to my family is now almost as great now as the debt he owes the Martells.” She could not help but add, with a grim smile, her silver eyes meeting Oberyn’s black ones. “Certainly, my personal desire to take Lannister heads is at least as great as your own.”

 

            Oberyn’s eyes glittered as he looked at her. “I actually believe it might be, Princess. Ser Daemon told me of the state of the bodies of the Mountain’s men where he found you. So _many_ wounds for each of them with such a little sword.” His voice was quiet and deadly. “And that would make you the first to match my passion for vengeance in almost twenty years.”

 

            Oberyn turned to his gathered guests. “My Lords and Ladies, I believe I will speak to the Princess in private, or at least in smaller company. Please do not hold back your luncheon on our account. I assure you; I have added my own spices to Lady Larra’s stew, it will taste as Dornish as we are able to make it in these cold, wet, miserable lands. Perros, would you bring us four bowls of it in the upper room? And some milk I think, for the Princess, I doubt she is used to Dornish spices. Ellaria, Daemon, to me?” Oberyn walked over to Arya and offered a formal arm. “Princess?”

 

He led her to a different bedroom in the small house, quite clearly his own, with a large four poster bed and packs and trunks strewn about and gestured to the simple table and chairs by the fireplace. “I hope that our accommodations were sufficient for you, Princess. When I received Daemon’s raven, we paid a merchant to vacate his home while we awaited your arrival. Easier to assure that we know exactly who is in and out than it would be at an inn. You are a very valuable fugitive, Princess. I assure you that no one but those in this home know that you are here, not even my other man who are on their way to the Wedding already. Those who are with me here are the ones I trust implicitly.”

 

Arya found herself overwhelmed again. Oberyn chuckled at her kindly. “Your eyes get very wide when you are taking in information. I do not mean to overwhelm you. Here, let us eat and get to know each other.”

 

The stew burned Arya’s mouth, and not from its temperature. She coughed when she took a huge first bite, It was spicier than anything she’d had before. She found herself gulping milk. Ellaria glared at Oberyn. “Did you have to spice it so forcefully when we had Northern company? You saw how little Myrcella could handle when she came to Dorne.”

 

“I am sorry!” he held up his hands in mock surrender. “I forget the weaknesses of the Northern palate.”

 

Another joke that would not do. “Lady Ellaria, the food does not bother me. In fact it is delicious.”

 

“She is fierce as you said, Daemon.” Said Oberyn with some amusement. He looked at Arya. “You would make a good Dornishwoman, I think, Princess. You just need some time to get used to the food.”

 

The later bites were more bearable, if she kept them small. She tried to avoid chugging the milk they had provided, and kept herself as close as she could to a semblance of ladylike manners. “Princess,” said Oberyn. “We have much to speak of. And you have been without news of the world for some time, I imagine, at a time when the world is changing far too quickly. Here is how we shall start. Let me tell you what I know of you, and your family, and what has happened to them recently. Then, you can tell me what you know of me and mine. We will fill each other in from there.” Arya nodded.

 

            “Let’s see.” Oberyn sipped at wine while he spoke. “You are Arya Stark. Second daughter of the former Hand of the King, Ned Stark, betrayed and killed by Joffrey Baratheon and his bitch mother. Your father is a man I knew, long ago, though we had not spoken in years. He had my utmost respect. Of all the men I met during the rebellion, it is your father who I would have wanted to see on the Iron Throne, but he was so honorable that he could not even desire that power for himself. He was among the best men I have ever met, Princess. I also met your aunt, and your uncles, and your grandfather, long ago, before you were born. I met them at the tourney at Harrenhal and spent time with your father again when he stayed in Dorne after Rhaegar Targaryen murdered your aunt. I have also met your eldest brother – your bastard brother, that is. His name is Jon, yes? I am afraid he would not remember meeting me, I held him as a suckling babe at Starfall. Then, of course your mother is Catelyn Tully, and she bore your father three sons and two daughters. So, you are the…third? Fourth? Of his children?”

            “Third. I have two younger brothers.”

 

            “Yes. My apologies, I could not remember – I had not had need until recently to know the names and ages of the heirs of Winterfell.” He smiled. “The last word of _you_ from my eyes and ears in the capital was that you had not been seen at court since your father’s execution, but that the Lannisters assured anyone who asked that you were confined to your rooms because of consistently unruly, violent, and unladylike behavior in the aftermath of your father’s death” He smirked. “My sources also told me that they had observed you at court before your father’s death and the description of your character, at least, seemed accurate.” There was no judgment in Oberyn’s voice. If anything, there was approval. “Apparently, the Lannisters meant to trade you and your sister to your brother Robb in exchange for the life of the Kingslayer, though the longer the time that you have not been seen, the more the rumors have spread that you are dead, with the prevailing theory being that the young Mad King killed you in a fit of rage. Now, obviously, most of that news of you is false, and I am eager to hear what the truth of your life in the last few months has been.”

 

            “I will share what I can, but first, do you have news of my family? Of my brothers and my sister? Please.” Arya did not like the desperate tone of her voice, but it was what it was. She had to know, and this man was clearly well informed. She was a little surprised when Oberyn reached out and took her hand in his. Her tiny fingers were dwarfed by his, and his hands were warm. He ran a soothing touch on the underside of her wrist as he spoke.

 

“I do have news of your family, my Princess. I am afraid that most of it is tragic, and I do not know how much of it you know. I am sorry to be its messenger.” Oberyn took a deep breath. “Your mother and your brother Robb were killed a little over a fortnight ago at the hands of Walder Frey and Roose Bolton, who betrayed the oldest laws of gods and men and attacked him at your uncle’s wedding feast while your brother was their guest. Robb’s body has been sent back to the capital. Your mother is also said by all accounts to be dead, though her body has not been found. King Robb’s death, and your mother’s, were bought and paid for by Tywin Lannister.” Oberyn paused and sighed. “Again, Princess, I am so sorry to give you all of this at once. but I am sorry to say that your younger brothers perished at the hands of your foster brother, Theon Greyjoy, when he took Winterfell a few months ago. Their bodies hang above the walls of Winterfell. Much of the household of Winterfell is dead as well. Another act of savage butchery against children.” Oberyn’s eyes were angry. “Not all the Starks are lost, though. By all accounts, your sister Sansa survives still in Kings Landing. She, unlike you, is seen regularly in public. I am quite sure the Lannisters do have her, and that she is alive. But, she has been wed to the Lannister Imp and remains a captive of the bastard king. The king, for his part, will wed Margaery Tyrell in a month’s time, which is one of the things that has brought me and mine North in the first place.” Oberyn paused, and Ellaria reached for Arya’s other hand. She felt tears rise every time Oberyn talked of her family in the past tense. But she would not cry. She was of the North. Oberyn continued “When I realized how horrifying the news I would have to deliver to you today was, I took the liberty of sending to the wall to give you what comfort I could about your last remaining brother. The men there confirmed that Jon Snow lives. Three of Ned Starks children are strong and alive. The Lions have not killed the wolves, despite their best efforts. And Princess, I swear to you on my own sister’s honor that _they_ _will_ _not_.”

 

            Arya pulled her hands back from Ellaria and Oberyn. There was no room for vulnerability here. She spoke stiffly. “Thank you…my lor…um…your…your Grace? Prince Oberyn?” she cursed herself, realizing she could not remember the correct form of address for a Prince of Dorne. Gods, but she was terrible at courtesies. Septa Mordane and Maester Luwin would be ashamed. Oberyn laughed kindly. “Prince Oberyn, if anything. Certainly not Your Grace. We Martells gave up our rights as kings and queens when the Targaryens brought us into the Seven Kingdoms a century ago. And I have no holdfast to be Lord over. But, I am not a man of courtly courtesies by nature, and I suspect” he looked her outfit up and down with amusement, “ that you are not a young woman who values them very highly either. I would have you call me Oberyn, if you would, Princess.”

 

            Arya supposed she should be reciprocal. If this was a trap, she was not versed enough in the game of thrones to know what it was. “And you may call me Arya.”

 

            “Good. now, Iet give you some time to eat and think in peace. You should not be required to grieve your family in public. Let me give you some time, a few hours at least for prayer, or rest, or whatever you need, and when you are ready, come downstairs and we can talk further. Ellaria, let us go speak to the others prepare them to begin the trip to Kings Landing, now that Arya is here. And after you rest, Arya, you and I and Ellaria will talk about where we will go next.”

 

            Arya did not want to think in peace. She was not a contemplative person. She did not need to pray. She needed to act. She stopped Oberyn as he stood. “I appreciate your concern for my feelings, but I am not sad. And I do not need to pray. I am _angry_. _”_ Oberyn looked at her, his face a strange mix of heat, amusement, and his ever-present intensity. “And what do you do when you are angry, Arya Stark?”

 

            “I kill things. Or try to.”

 

            “A woman after my own heart. Now, I have nothing for you to kill, but we can play at it. Ser Daemon tells me you are quite good with that little sword of yours. Would you like to test yourself against the Red Viper of Dorne?”

 

            Arya could think of nothing in the world she wanted more in that moment. She gave a small smile and nodded. Oberyn grabbed her hand, not like a lord, but more like a childhood friend pulling her out to play. Ellaria voiced some protesting noise in the background about rest, but Arya ignored her, and Oberyn shouted back an apology and a request to help the household prepare. She donned her boots in her room, and Oberyn led her to the small chicken yard behind the house, grabbing a sword as he walked out the door. Arya wanted blood. Not this man’s blood. Lion’s blood. Frey Blood. Kraken Blood. But in the meantime, it would feel good to hit things for a while.


	4. Chapter 4: The She-Wolf's List

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because you gotta have an Oberyn/Arya fight.

Oberyn Martell shooed the chickens as he led the little she-wolf into the yard. It was impressive, he reflected, how strong the seed was in some families. His girls looked like him, to be sure, but it was nothing compared to these Starks. It was not just that Arya had Lyanna’s coloring and height. She had her eyes, her lips, her shape. She walked like her, talked like her, a woman who had been killed before Arya had ever been born. It was so uncanny that he had caught himself during lunch feeling _angry_ at her, the two decades old anger towards Rhaegar Targaryen stirring in his heart again. He tried to put that anger out of his mind. It would do no one any good if he held the actions of a dead woman against this girl, just because she had the good fortune to be born with her aunt’s beauty. It was not as if that _Lyanna’s_ actions had ever been the primary cause of his family’s suffering anyway. She was just another girl who was hurt by powerful men. And it was to his eternal shame that she had been hurt within the borders of his own beloved Dorne.

When he had seen the raven from Daemon, he had hoped that it would say that his lover was bringing The Mountain to him. Doran had forbidden Oberyn from hunting Gregor Clegane or Amory Lorch in the Riverlands, making him promise that he would not be the first aggressor, so that Doran’s own, slower plans against Tywin Lannister could unfold unimpeded. Of course, Doran had not explicitly forbidden a search by Ser Daemon and his men, and Oberyn was more than happy to dispatch the men to ride on ahead of the larger host with one of Oberyn’s favorite, and most creative poisons in hand. Sending them was a thin distinction that came closer than Oberyn usually did to outright disobeying Doran, but with a man like the Mountain, he would rather have him dead and ask for forgiveness than wait for permission from his ever-cautious brother.

He had been caught off guard by Daemon’s actual news. He had expected to look in on the Stark daughters in Kings Landing, but with them in Tywin’s custody, he had not considered them true pieces in the game they were playing. Both he and Doran had been alarmed by Princess Myrcella’s stories about her kingly brother. Cersei Lannister’s daughter was innocent and sweet, but she would sometimes give voice to stories of her brother flaying animals, breaking Myrcella and Tommen’s limbs, and plotting gruesome deaths against servants. Myrcella seemed to not realize how horrifying these tales really were. The boy had never been disciplined properly for his monstrous actions. Now, Joffrey was clearly as mad as Aerys himself, and the idea of two young highborn girls who were the King’s wards without their father to protect them in the capital sounded like a recipe for disaster. His brother had agreed that if they were not returned to their mother by the time Oberyn arrived, checking on the wellbeing of Ned Stark’s daughters would be one of many reasons why Oberyn’s presence in Kings Landing on the small council would be advantageous.

But to hear that one of the girls had escaped, and apparently gone on some sort of adventure worthy of a song since her father’s death was highly unexpected. It was an obvious and very appealing opportunity to humiliate Tywin Lannister. But other than that, he had expected very little from Arya Stark. She was a Northern highborn girl, after all. Girls outside of Dorne were not, in his experience, given the upbringing necessary to survive the kind of trial Arya had endured. She had told Daemon very little about her travels, but from what Daemon had relayed to him the night before, just the locations she had told him put her under the direct control of Joffrey Baratheon, Gregor Clegane, Sandor Clegane, Amory Lorch, Roose Bolton, and Tywin Lannister, and the rapers and butchers that such men employed. He expected a haunted, broken little girl who needed tending and saving, and not much more. When Ellaria had refused to let him see her, he had assumed the worst. Instead, this morning, here was this tiny, determined Northern Princess in breeches and bare feet, little sword on hip, listening to a recitation of horrors against her family and wanting to kill, not cry.

Oberyn was not going to deny that he was intrigued by little Arya Stark. Not attracted, not exactly. She _was_ beautiful– though she also clearly had absolutely no idea that that was the case. But she was far too young to command any serious interest from him. He would scare the living daylights out of her, he was sure, if he so much as hinted at a flirtation, and he was not interested in bedding women who were scared of him. But to survive in the custody of Cleganes, to escape Harrenhal, to travel as a boy with a caravan of criminals bound for the wall… the girl was _strong_. She had a fire in her eyes that he wanted to stoke. He wanted to see how brightly she could burn. Doran might not want House Martell to move against the Lannisters directly. But supporting the Starks in doing so might be a different matter.

For now, he would have to see what he could find out about Arya Stark in the practice yard. It was how he sussed out men, after all. It had been some time since he had sparred with a woman warrior other than his own daughters. Ellaria could defend herself, but she had no urge to kill. Daemon had told him that the wolf girl hated it when he and his men had gone easy on her. She would rather be knocked down seven times and finally fight to a draw on the eighth than have the men fight off handed or handicap themselves some other way. So, he started by drawing his own sword.

He could see the anger in her as he pulled off his tunic, took a swig from a waterskin, and readied his sword to fight. She was pacing, constantly moving. Certainly, she needed to release some tension. And short of taking her to bed, Oberyn was sure that sparring was the best way to help her. When he was ready, he squared up, swords raised, across the yard from her. “Come then, Princess. Let’s see what you can do.”

Arya rushed him with a yell. He parried her easily and had her on her back on the ground in ten seconds flat. “If you want to just hit things, we can do that instead. There are many ways to release anger, and there is no shame in that. But if we are going to spar, you cannot put all of it into a charge like that and expect to win. Tell me, who taught you to fight?”

“Syrio Forel, the first sword of Braavos.”

Oberyn laughed. “Another connection between us then! I know Syrio well. I trained with him in Braavos years ago…he trailed off as he saw her pained face. “I take it the first sword of Braavos was also a victim of the Lannisters.” Oberyn felt sick to think of that bold man being butchered by lackeys in red cloaks.

“Meryn Trant of the Kingsguard. He killed Syrio trying to get to me.”

“We will honor his memory here then and avenge his death in the capital.” Oberyn said solemnly as he met Arya’s eyes. “Tell me, Arya Stark, what is it that we say to the God of death?”

“Not Today.” Oberyn smiled at the old fighter’s words in the young fighter’s mouth, and then attacked.

This time, the little she-wolf fought well. Very well, though Oberyn could have easily tipped the match in a moment if he wished to. Arya had a natural grace that reminded him of his daughter Nymeria, and a sense of how to use her small stature to an advantage. She was fast and kept low to the ground. He could see the marks of Syrio’s training on her form. He almost let her win, for he so wanted to see a triumphant smile on her little angry face, but he remembered what Daemon had said, and attacked in earnest at last, ending with his blade at her throat. “You are good, Princess. I am much better, but I am better than most men. Tell me, did your father teach you to fight as well?

“Not with a sword, but he let me use a bow.”

“He trained your eye, then. Honor him here. Watch my muscles, not my words or my eyes, to see where I am going next.” He started another bout.

“Who killed your father, Arya Stark?”

“Ilyn Payne. King Joffrey. Queen Cersei.”

“When you kill them, you will use what your father taught you to do it.” She successfully noticed one of his feints this time and smiled triumphantly. A few parries later, he beat her to the ground again, then offered her his hand just as quickly to help her up. “And your older brother, Robb, what did he teach you?”

She grinned. She was getting the game now. “Robb taught me to hunt. He taught me to move quietly, not to scare the deer, so we could come close enough to get a clean shot.”

“Who killed him, Arya Stark?”

“The Freys.”

“You will sneak behind them in the dark to kill them then, get close as Robb taught you, stalk them like prey then flash out and kill them before they have time to draw a sword.”

At “flash out”, Oberyn almost pushed her to the ground again, but Arya pushed back with a yell, two hands on her sword, and forced him stumbling back. He grinned at her as he held his hands up. “Nicely done.”

“Wasn’t a draw. You could have fought back. Don’t go easy on me.”

“Fair enough, she-wolf. Four to zero. Again.”

Now, to Oberyn’s great pleasure, Arya took over his game herself while they fought. “My mother taught me patience. Or tried to, at least. The Boltons killed her. They are North. I will have to wait. But when I slit them from chin to bowel, their deaths will be all the sweeter.” She advanced on him. This time, to Oberyn’s surprise, he found himself on his back. He was not at his best now, as he found himself so mesmerized by this girl and her recitations of death. She gave him a hand up. Keep fighting. Oberyn was finding himself breathing heavily now, but the wolf-girl was going strong, fueled by the fire he had seen in her eyes. “Again.”

“Bran and Rickon are why I am so fast. I had to be faster than them. I had to beat them. Prove I was better. I raced them every day.” Arya ducked under Oberyn’s blade and rushed past him, using a water dancing form he recognized to perfectly come at him from behind. She met his sword again. “I will run Theon Greyjoy down in the halls of my home and slit his throat for what he did for them.”

“And tell me Arya, who did the Mountain kill?”

“He and his men killed my friends. The only people who watched out for me after my father died. They killed them like they were worthless. Like they were _nothing._ ” At this, Oberyn Martell grabbed Arya’s wrist when they were locked face to face, sword to sword. “And I, Arya Stark, will be the friend who helps you kill the Mountain. Who helps you kill all of them.”

He released his hold and stepped back, disengaging. Arya dropped her sword and bent over with her hands on her knees, breathing hard.

“Valar Morghulis.” she said.

“Valar Morghulis” Oberyn intoned back. He would have to figure out why she spoke the faceless men’s motto later. “Do you feel better, She-wolf?”

“Yes I do, Viper.”

“Good. Go wash up. Rest a little until dinner, you are still weak, even if you do not feel it. Then, tonight, we will plan.”

Arya turned towards the house. At the door, she paused and looked back. “Thank you, Oberyn Martell.”

“You are welcome, Arya Stark.”

 _Yes_. Thought Oberyn. _This wolf pup is going to make my time in Kings Landing much more interesting than Doran intended it to be_. He had already made up his mind to take the girl with him. Now he just had to convince Ellaria and think of some way to keep her out of the Tywin Lannister’s clutches as he walked with her straight into the Lion’s mouth.


	5. Chapter 5: Plots

Arya left the yard where she had sparred with Oberyn Martell with a heady sensation of…reverence. That was the only word she could think of for the feeling. Her mother had dragged her to the Sept as a child, her father had encouraged her to sit in the Godswood and pray. She had never felt what they wanted her to there, a connection to something bigger, some bottomless well of strength and love. But just now, with her blood running high and her sword moving like part of her body, as Syrio had taught her, with the faces of her family flashing in her head and the faces of their killers fueling her violence, and that crazy shirtless Dornishman as angry and passionate as her… _that_ had felt like something. Like a connection to something larger. The God of Death, the Many-Faced God…the Stranger…whatever it was, she had never felt more alive than when she was one with her blade, deadly and vengeful. And she’d be damned if she was ever going to let anyone take her sword away again.

Rest was out of the question, but she certainly needed time to think, so she shut herself up in the little room at the top of the stairs that she had stayed in the night before. She could get used to the feeling of being able to be _alone_ again occasionally. She was starting to see a path forward where she stayed with these Dornishmen, where she took up Ser Daemon’s offer of a new pack. For the first time in nearly a year, she had stopped running. And now, for the first time, she had choices to make. She could go to the Vale, where the hound had been taking her. She could go to the Wall, as she had originally intended. And Braavos was always there, in the distance. But she knew that if there was any way to do it safely, she had a duty to her sister, however much she wanted to buck against it. Now that she was safe and free, she needed to go rescue Sansa. _A nice twist on Sansa’s stupid knightly fantasies_ , she thought bitterly. Her sister had apparently sat patiently in Kings Landing all year, waiting for Robb to come and save her, even giving in to a wedding to a _Lannister_. She knew Sandor had offered to take Sansa away from Kings Landing with him, and she had refused him. Apparently, the Hound hadn’t been pretty enough to be Sansa’s knight in shining armor. Well, there weren’t any more of those coming for Sansa. Like it or not, she’d have to content herself with being rescued by her little horse-faced sister. Now Arya just had to find a way to get back to Kings Landing without being arrested on sight.

As she walked down the hall to use the privy, she caught the sound of her sister’s name on Oberyn’s lips, and then her own, through the half-open door at the end of the hall. _No_. She would _not_ be plotted over. She was, after all, a woman grown. She took a deep breath, then pushed open the door.

\--

Ellaria peaked out over the top of her book watching Oberyn strip down to wash himself after his sparring match with the wolf girl. Daemon lay snoring rather loudly in the bed next to her. The man slept like the dead when he was tired enough. Ellaria narrowed her eyes at her Prince. He was grinning widely, and she did not trust the look of mischief that was dancing behind his eyes.

“Oberyn, the last thing that girl needs right now is your flirtation. She’s been through enough with men.”

Oberyn laughed. “You _wound_ me, my love. I think with more than just my cock. No, no, I don’t think I have met a new lover in Arya Stark, but I _have_ met a very interesting new friend. She is certainly not the broken little girl we expected to arrive here, now is she?”

Ellaria sighed. Men were so quick to assume that what they saw on the surface of a person was what the person was inside. “you think she is not a broken little girl just because she does not cry? Tell me, do you think it’s normal for a girl of five and ten to recite the names of those she means to kill every night before she sleeps?”

“I was only a little older than her when I began doing something quite similar.”

Ellaria rolled her eyes. “Yes, and _you_ were certainly not a broken young man at all.” Oberyn’s smile drooped just a bit.

“Never, my love. Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken.” He said, donning new breaches and slipping into bed behind her to cradle Ellaria to his chest. “I do not mean to say that Arya has not suffered. I will have a number of new enemies as soon as I can coax out of her all those who have hurt her on these roads. But her _strength_ , Ellaria. Her _wrath_. And she’s quite good with that little sword. You know she actually beat me in a bout out there.”

“You were probably too busy staring at her. The same reason you lose to Daemon sometimes.”

“No, I lose to Daemon on purpose so that I can end our training early and drag him off to bed.” Ellaria laughed with him then. He kissed her, and they spent a few minutes in comfortable exploration of each other’s mouths, before Ellaria settled back against him.

“My love, I left our daughters in Dorne and came with you to this horrible place to restrain you from doing anything truly foolish. This girl needs safety. She _is_ a wonder, I agree. But she is not done growing. She needs sunlight and good food and love and fresh air, not the dangers you and I are walking into. If she has no family of her own who can keep her safe, she should be on the next ship out of Maidenpool to Sunspear before anyone outside this house knows she is alive. I’ll take her there myself if I must. Doran and the girls will keep her safe and happy, and whatever benefit her name can give to Dorne in this ridiculous game the houses play up here, let him be the one to decide.”

“She has a sister who held captive by the Lannisters. I doubt she will trust Sansa’s rescue to strangers.”

“Rescue? So now we are rescuing Sansa Stark? What plots have you concocted in the two hours since I was last by your side?”

“I mean to take Arya with us to Kings Landing. Together, we will humiliate Tywin Lannister, kill the Mountain and Lorch, perhaps slay the boy king if we have time, save Sansa Stark, and all ride off together into the sunset.” 

Suddenly, the door banged open, and the little she-wolf herself strode into the room, eyes wide with anger. “ _Hey_. She yelled. “Don’t talk about me when I’m not there.”

When Arya saw the three of them in bed together, she turned the color of a strawberry and her eyes immediately flew to fix themselves to a random spot on the wall. Still, she kept some semblance of composure. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to, um, interrupt, but I won’t have you talking about me if I’m not there. Prince Oberyn, I am a Princess of the North. if you want to make plans about me, you will make them _with_ me.” Her voice had a bit of a squeak to it, but she stood proud and tall, and by the end of her statement she had forced herself to meet Oberyn’s eyes.

To Ellaria’s eyes, the girl’s confidence was a thin, brittle thing. She had seen her the night she came, small, and scared, and dirty. The playacting she was achieving today was impressive, but Ellaria found she wanted nothing more than to soothe Arya Stark and tell her that she did not need to be strong right now, that she was allowed to grieve, and weep, and be comforted, and be a little girl, if she needed to. If this young woman held herself rigid and unyielding like this too much longer, Ellaria feared it would cease being an act, and her heart would truly turn to stone. But she was not sure that Oberyn understood that danger.

Her Prince stood and bowed to the Princess of the North. “My apologies, Princess. You are right.” Oberyn’s eyes flashed with that dangerous mischief again as he smirked. “Come. Let us plot the downfall of House Lannister.”

Prince Oberyn rummaged through one of the trunks strewn around the room and pulled out a bottle of wine, holding it in the air somewhat triumphantly. Wine was apparently a companion to most of Oberyn’s activities. Sitting back where they had been for luncheon, Oberyn poured three glasses. It seemed Ellaria would be present for all their conversations, Arya thought. She didn’t dislike the woman, she supposed, she just didn’t have a good sense of what she wanted. She didn’t imagine she had the standing here to ask that she leave, though. Ser Daemon was still sleeping in the bed, apparently dead to the world. She found herself wondering whether all three of them bedded each other – and if so, how exactly all the parts fit together. That didn’t seem like a particularly smart thing to think about if she wanted to avoid blushing, though.

“So tell me, Arya Stark. Where is it that _you_ want to go next?”

“Kings Landing, I suppose, if I can get there without being killed on the spot. That’s where the King is, and I want to kill him.”

“A big crime, Kingslaying, for little people such as you and me, Princess. Tell me, how do you intend to carry it out?”

Arya smiled grimly, fingering Needle at her hip. “I was planning on sticking him with the pointy end of my sword.”

Oberyn laughed. His laughs never felt mocking or condescending, she noticed. It always felt genuine and joyful. “I also would like to stride into Kings Landing and kill our enemies in broad daylight. But obviously, if justice were so easy, evil men would never dare rape and kill in the first place.”

 _Our enemies_. An attempt to build trust, that much was clear. She had to keep her wits about her. She knew little about what Oberyn might want for his own House. Her eyes narrowed at him, as she turned over in her head what she knew of House Lannister, House Martell, and Joffrey Baratheon. Most importantly, she knew who supported who in the war of the Five Kings. It had been a fairly important thing to know on the road, whether someone was a Lion, or a Rose, or a Wolf, or a Stag or a Kraken. And though she hadn’t met any Dornishmen directly…

Oberyn continued as he paced with his cup of wine.

“My own plan, sweet Princess…”

 “Why do you keep calling me Princess, anyway?” she interrupted, narrowing her eyes at him as suspicion grew. “Dorne didn’t support my father and didn’t recognize Robb as King in the North. Dornishmen are Lions, not Wolves.”

Oberyn had been facing the window. He spun on his heels, his eyes flashing with anger. “The Dornish will _never_ be Lions, Arya Stark.” He snapped, his voice suddenly losing its silky quality. “My brother can say what he wishes about the armies of the Dornishmen, but not their hearts. Not _my_ heart. And I will use the titles that match what I believe in my heart, Princess.”

“Don’t you have to do what your brother says?” Arya crooked an eyebrow. “When my Maester taught me about House Martell, it was Prince Doran who was Lord of Sunspear, not Prince Oberyn.”

“Did you learn our words, as well?”

Arya allowed herself a small smile. She had always liked the words of House Martell. “Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken.”

“Exactly. Those words are just as true when it comes to my brother as it does when it comes to Tywin Lannister. Doran has sent me to take the place we earned on the small council when he decided to sit out the war of the Five Kings and allow my nephew to marry little Princess Myrcella. And what the Imp promised my brother was _Justice_ for my sister and her children. And I mean to get it. Either it will be given to me, or I will take it.”

“And what does that entail, Prince Oberyn?”

“The heads of Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch, to begin. And the ruin of Tywin Lannister, to end.”

“Then your work is half done already. I watched Amory Lorch die at Harrenhal.”

“You _saw_ him die, Princess? With your own eyes. You saw his body?” Oberyn had strode forward and was now very close to Arya. He knelt in front of where she sat and took both her shoulders in his hands, clasping them his eyes both hopeful and angry.

“Yes”.

“You are _sure_ it was Amory Lorch? Amory Lorch, the man who serves House Lannister? His arms are a black manticore on red?”

“Yes.”

“Then tell me how it happened. Tell me how the rat died.” Oberyn voice shook with emotion.

Arya told him, in great detail, how the pig-faced man had been paraded naked in front of the company at Harrenhal by Roose Bolton, how he had pleaded for his life. How he had been kicked with the heel of Vargo Hoat’s boot into the bear pit, and how the black bear had torn out his throat, blood gushing from the wound. Arya smiled as she told the Prince the story. It was a good memory. She briefly saw Ellaria silent behind Oberyn, her eyes wide in horror at the gruesomeness details. When she had finished, Oberyn looked towards the ground, and when he looked back at her, his eyes were wet with tears.

“The gods sent justice for my niece, already, then.” He took Arya’s face in his hands now. “Thank you, Princess. You have given me a great gift, to tell me this. A great gift indeed to know he died screaming, as my niece did. The only better news you could have given me is that you had him captured alive to kill myself. But he is dead, and to have spoken to one who saw it happen is an honor. I am in your debt, Arya Stark.” He leaned forward and pressed a firm, sincere kiss to Arya’s forehead.

Ellaria’s hand was on his shoulder then, and Oberyn allowed himself to be pulled back into the couch with her as she put her arms around him running her hands through his hair to comfort him. Arya sat there in somewhat awkward silence for a few long minutes, until Oberyn collected himself and sat forward to rest his elbows on his knees, studying her intently.

“So you were at Harrenhal, then? Were you there when Tywin Lannister was there? How did you escape his men?”

At this, Arya could not help but break into a wide grin. “I was there. I was right there in front of his nose. But he didn’t know it.”

By the time Arya was done telling her story about her time as Tywin Lannister and Roose Bolton’s cupbearers – how the Old Lion had deduced that she a girl, and was Northern, and had even suspected she was high born, but had never quite put together all the pieces, how she had been allowed to sit in his war councils and how he had traded wits with her and set her riddles, Oberyn and Ellaria both were laughing. It was good to laugh. The whole thing had been terrifying at the time, of course. But truthfully, she didn’t think she’d ever get the opportunity to tell it to anyone. She assumed she’d be dead before she got the chance. Oberyn spoke through his laughter.

“So, she-wolf, you are telling me, that if I were to take you to Kings Landing – under Dornish protection, of course – and have you greet Tywin Lannister, he would _not only_ be greeted by a young girl who had slipped out of his daughter’s grasp, but also one who had been in his presence for weeks, without him realizing?”

She smirked. “Unless I’m dressed in rags, I’m not sure he’d even recognize me. I might need to remind him I’m not from a stonemason’s daughter from Barrowton. That should do it.”

“Well, now, Ellaria, I feel the matter is decided for us! I must see his face, my love. I simply must.” Ellaria gave an indulgent look at Oberyn’s boyish glee.

“You will come to Kings Landing with us.” Oberyn proclaimed. “You have to. I must see the look on the Old Lion’s face when he sees you. And I will enjoy it even more when you can report the atrocities you saw at Harrenhal to the small council. We will see how much Mace Tyrell wishes to join his family to Joffrey Baratheon then. And while we are there, we will save your sister from marriage to the Imp.”

Arya sighed. “But you can’t protect me once we’re in the city. Like you said, the Dornish sided with Joffrey. I’m a fugitive of the crown. You’d have to hand me over, or you’d be killed…and it’s not like there’s a Warden of the North anymore who would stop Joffrey from doing whatever he wants with me.”

“I will protect you. Dorne will protect you.”

It was Ellaria who spoke next. “My love. Do not be foolish. You can try to protect the poor girl with your own life, but you cannot take on the entire City Guard of Kings Landing. And Doran will not send his armies North for a Stark. Tywin Lannister knows this, surely. He will take Arya from us as soon as we are in the city, and if you die for her, it will be in vain.” She looked at Arya directly. “Lady Arya, I believe Prince Doran would protect you _if_ we get you to Dorne. He was a friend of your father’s, and he is a good man; he will not turn you over to those who wish to hurt you.” she gestured to Oberyn, “But that is an entirely different matter than our small party being able to keep you safe in the capital.” Ellaria was clearly really talking to Oberyn, though she kept looking at Arya “He is only one man. A man with a very high opinion of his own abilities, but one man, nonetheless. He cannot withstand the force of the crown by himself. As I have had to remind him many, many times.”

 Oberyn thought for a moment, then stood, kissed Ellaria on the forehead, and then started to pace again, fiddling with a dagger as he did. “My love you are right, of course. She is right in so many things. Doran has already decided he will not move against the Old Lion unless they threaten Dorne directly….” Oberyn spun again, his eyes now alight with a triumphant look. He paced back to Arya, his hands moving excitedly. 

“But he would _have_ to ride North if Tywin Lannister threatened his goodsister.” Arya looked at him, confused. “The Dornish will not attack the Lions to protect Princess Arya Stark, it’s true.  But they _would_ for Princess Arya Nymeros Martell”.

All at once, his implication snapped into place in Arya’s mind. No sooner had the thought “He plans to marry me” formed in her mind than she was on her feet and she was bolting out the open door, hellbent on getting away.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think half of Ellaria's role in Oberyn's life is to remind him regularly that he is a cocky idiot. I figure it works maybe 50% of the time.


	6. Chapter 6: If you love something...

Oberyn stood in shocked silence for a moment as Arya fled the room. “Well, I admit, my love, that is a blow to my pride.”

Ellaria looked at him a little alarmed. “ _Oberyn_.” She hissed. “Stay here. You’ve done enough.”

“There was a second sentence to the plan!” Oberyn yelled after her. Ellaria was already striding out of the room after the fleeing girl. Oberyn sat down on the couches, and poured himself another glass of wine, feeling a bit defeated. He had been stupid to be so free with his words and needed to get himself in line before he reached the capital. He was used to Sunspear, and the Water Gardens, where women had much less to fear from him. It had been a long time since he had been North of the Princes Pass, where girls were raised to “bleed and breed”. He remembered when he had first heard that phrase when Elia and he had first gone north with their mother to meet their prospects for marriage. It had made him see red at the time and had terrified Elia. Rhaegar had not been such a man, and Elia had been spared that unkindness. She had been happy enough to marry the Dragon Prince, at the beginning at least. But a little highborn girl like Arya Stark had a million reasons to fear a man like him.

He heard a yell of pain and a loud “FUCK” from the downstairs room, and decided he’d have to face Ellaria’s wrath later for interfering. He had to go to figure out what damage he had done, and whether he could repair it.

The scene he came upon would be comical if it wasn’t so concerning. Myles held the wolf girl in his arms while she flailed trying to get towards the door. Ellaria was trying to calm things down, with little success. He saw Arya’s face, wild with anger and fear. That would not do, if he still wanted any hope of convincing her to be his ally. “Ser Myles!” he spoke sharply, every inch a commander and Prince, unsheathing his sword on his own friend. “Unhand Princess Arya immediately. I should have your hands for detaining our _guest_ so.” Myles met Oberyn’s eyes with annoyance as released Arya. He’d have to apologize to the man later. Of course Myles thought he should stop the girl from sprinting off into the town. He was a knight, sworn to protect women and children. Arya stood now, her eyes wild, but she did not make for the door. “Arya Stark is _not_ a prisoner, Ser Myles. Arya Stark will _never_ be a prisoner of Dorne, is that clear? She comes and goes exactly as she pleases.” He met Arya’s eyes then. “Princess, you may leave any room or house you wish…” he had to smirk then. “However quickly you wish. I will _never_ take your freedom from you. If you wish, I had more to explain about my plan. Rest assured that I do not wish _anything_ from you that you will not willingly give.”

“I will _never_ willingly marry _anyone_.” Spat Arya. “ _Never_ ”.

Myles was looking at him in confusion, Ellaria was looking at him like she would _kill_ him if he spoke another word. Just one more sentence for Arya, though. One more reassurance. He could not bear to be the cause of that fear in her eyes. “You misunderstand, Arya. Which is my fault, not yours. I propose an alliance, one that looks outwardly like a marriage the Crown will be required to respect but looks quite different behind closed doors. And, with some luck, a marriage you can leave behind if you wish, once we leave Kings Landing and take your sister to safety.”

He studied the little she-wolf. Her eyes seemed to change every second, hopeful, to angry, to frightened, to questioning. She fingered her sword. “If I’m truly not a prisoner, then I’m leaving.” Arya said, raising her chin.

“As is your right. You are a Princess. No one should hold you against your will. I cannot tarry any longer on the road to Kings Landing, however. We ride for the capital at first light. You are welcome to stay with us, ask whatever you wish. We have food and wine and warmth. And if you stay with us, we will give our lives to keep you safe.” And Princess Arya…” he paused. “we also have advice and help to offer you, if you will take it. I have a plan that I believe will give you, and I, the vengeance we seek. And save your sister. But that is not your only option. Ellaria will counsel you to go to my brother in Dorne, and if you choose, she or Myles or Dez can take you there by ship. Or we can offer you a horse and a guard and take you North to the Wall, or to the Vale, or wherever else you want to go.” Her eyes were still darting. “But if none of those paths appeal to you, you can ride, or walk, out of here never to see us again, and we will tell no one that we saw you.” Her eyes have definitely gotten calmer now. “Do you believe what I say, Princess?”

“I don’t know what to believe.” Arya said quietly. Then, her eyes hardened again. “You say I’m free to go, I’m going.”

Ellaria was shooting him daggers with her eyes now, but Oberyn was surer now that this was the right way to treat Arya than he had been before. He’d been the one to make her afraid, he had to be the one to make her feel safe. He was gambling, he knew. He had seen she was like him in the practice yard. So perhaps, safety, for Arya, was what safety was for _him_. Freedom.

“Would you like a horse? A bedroll and rations?”

“Yes.” Said Arya quietly. Oberyn flicked a hand at Perros Blackmont, who ran off to fetch a bedroll, and a pack, and a cloak. Ellaria took it from him and approached Arya with it. She was so precious to him, helping him in this even when he was sure she would have done differently. He would have to thank her propely later. “Little wolf” his lady love said to the woman he still hoped might choose to be his wife, “you do not have to go. Trust us. My fool Prince will not marry you if you do not wish it.”

Arya opened her mouth to say something. There was so much pain in her eyes. So much pain for one so young. And he had made it worse. Someone had convinced this girl of terrible things about marriage and men. If he had known, he would not ever have taken her mind down that road. He hoped he could pull her back towards him.

Then, her eyes went blank. Steely. Dead. “Thank you for your kindness, Prince Oberyn.”

He wanted to stop her. Run towards her and wrap her in his arms and carry her off somewhere where no one would ever hurt her. He could tell Ellaria did too. But _this_ girl would misinterpret. She would see possession and greed in their efforts for comfort. He remembered all the women he had bedded, and then fled, after Elia had died.  They had wanted to hold him. To chase away his demons. Some of them were the mothers of his daughters. But it had not been until Ellaria that he had accepted what those women offered. Until then, until her, safety had been being able to pick up in the night and take off at a moment’s notice, sail to the ends of the earth if he wished with nothing but the clothes on his back. He wanted to carry Arya home with him more than anything, but no, if he was right, if she was like him…she would never accept their love that way. So he said only. “If you decide not to join us, send us word, if you can, when you are safe. It would ease our worry.” Arya looked like she might cry. She nodded.

He saw Ellaria go to grab Arya’s wrist, and Oberyn forward to place a hand on her shoulder before she could. Arya opened the door and slipped out into the sunset. He could only hope she came back.

\--

Arya found the horses in the stable and picked one that she was pretty sure was the least wanted of the Dornishmen’s horses. Not Daemon’s or Myles’s or Dez’s – she knew those horses now, and she would not take them from their masters. And she saw a black horse with a strange, wild red mane, and had to assume that Oberyn would have kept such a uniquely colored mount as his own. Likewise, the beautiful all-black mare, sleek and strong, with intricate braids in her hair, laced with gold bells and beads, had to be Ellaria’s. She picked a dun-colored pack horse as her own. The sun was beginning to set as she rode out of Maidenpool. Alone. Gods but it was good to be alone. She would camp the night in the nearby woods. And then…she didn’t know. She felt a little silly. 

The fear that had caused her to bolt from Oberyn when he had said that name, Arya Martell, Arya anything-but-Stark, had faded with his speech at the door. As the panic from that moment faded, she realized she was smart enough to read his intent. If she were his…wife- the word was as hard to form in her head as it would have been out loud – Tywin Lannister would not be able to retake her without angering Dorne. She would be the wife of a member of the Small Council, and would be safe in Kings Landing…as much as anyone was safe in that viper pit.

She laughed a little to herself at the phrase. She supposed the Red Viper would feel right at home in the capital.

Arya did not take the main road. The grand, well-maintained road from Maidenpool lead to Kings Landing. She supposed there was no point taking that road if she meant to leave Oberyn and his company anyway. She set out instead on the road that had taken her there in the first place, She recognized the edges of town as they passed her, the dirt road that led back through the Quiet Isle, to Saltpans, and Darry, and the Crossroads Inn. She rode for an hour, until she saw that the very ends of light were fading, and she needed to find a place to sleep. She took a detour on a path off the road, finding herself in a little clearing where someone had clearly camped a previous night. She lit the candle in the little lantern she had found in the pack the Dornish had provided, tied up her horse, and laid out a bedroll. She wasn’t hungry.

She stared at the constellations above. Once she blew out the lantern, it was as dark as it could be, the kind of absolute blackness she had never known until she first slept a night away from Winterfell. She had been a little girl then, no more than eight, and her father had taken her to White Harbor, her and Robb and Jon. Sansa had been welcome, but when she learned there would be nights where they slept rough on the road, and not in inns, she had decided she didn’t want to go. Arya still remembered her father teaching her to sleep like Northerners do in the cold of night, the four of them under one set of furs, not in separate bedrolls, sharing their warmth. That night, he had taught her, and her older brothers, the constellations, the ones that were harder to see with the fires of Winterfell Keep burning nearby. She remembered him showing them the Sword of the Morning, and talking about House Dayne, about Arthur Dayne, the greatest night of the Kingsguard, who he had had to kill at the Tower of Joy, whose sword he had returned to Starfall. She remembered crying, trying not to let her brothers see, trying to be strong, when her father told them of Ashara Dayne, Arthur’s sister, who had thrown herself from the top of the keep at Starfall when she had learned her brother had died. Arya remembered thinking she might do the same, if Robb or Jon died. And now it had happened. Robb had died, his wolf’s head sowed to his body and his corpse paraded through his enemy’s camp. And she had not cast herself off a tower. And neither had Sansa.

The Ice Dragon. Another constellation, one she’d learned young, taught to her not only by her father, but the Northmen and Northwomen, highborn and lowborn, who had nursed her as a babe, held her hand when she learned to walk. The eye of the Ice Dragon always pointed north. The tail, south. Whenever you were lost, even in the deepest woods, if you looked to the sky, you could know where you are. The Ice Dragon’s eye was bright tonight, queerly blue, as it always was, compared to the bright white of the stars around it.

North lay Jon. Her last brother. And Winterfell. A ruin, if the stories were true, half burned to the ground, her friends slaughtered, held by pirates. She would go see Theon Greyjoy killed for what he’d done, but she couldn’t do it herself. And Jon…once Jon saw her, he’d never let her out of his sight again. He was too much like father, too protective. She remembered once, shortly before she left Winterfell, insisting on riding out on her own, just a little way, not even past the actual gates of Winterfell. She had begged and pleaded, and her father had finally allowed it – but when she had circled her steed back, she had found Harwin following her at a distance, clearly ordered by her father to keep watch over her. Jon would do the same. He certainly would never allow her to take a force to Winterfell to reclaim it.

She’d done the same circles after she left Maidenpool just a few hours ago – but had found no Dornishmen. Oberyn had truly let her go. He was a strange man. And she did _not_ trust this marriage proposal, not yet, not without more details. But so far, he had not lied to her. That could not be said for many people she’d met in the past year.

The Ice Dragon’s tail pointed South. Arya hated even the _concept_ of South these days. Every inch she had progressed South had brought misery and death, and every inch she’d come north again had made things just a little better – even if the Hound was not exactly ideal company, life with him was still better than Harrenhal. But south lay Sansa. The _true_ Princess of the North – no – _Queen_ in the North. Winterfell needed saving, yes, but once Arya retook the castle, all she would be left with were the ruins of her childhood and the ghosts. Sansa _lived_. And if she was going South anyway…her father’s words echoed in her ears “When Winter comes, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.”

With a sigh, Arya lay down to catch a couple hours sleep. She wasn’t far from town, and the Dornish were leaving at first light. There was only one road out of Maidenpool towards Kings Landing. She’d catch them eventually.

\--

Oberyn did not sleep that night. Ellaria had shunned his bed. She was angry with him, angrier than he had seen her in years. She had every right to be. He had ignored her words, her wishes. Daemon thought he was crazy too. He had come close to disobeying Oberyn’s direct order and going after Arya – they had had an uncomfortably formal conversation in which Oberyn had had to admonish the younger man for his insolence, which had reminded Oberyn of why sleeping with his own squire created complications outside the bedroom. And as Myles watched Ellaria and Daemon close the bedroom door behind them, leaving Oberyn in front of the fire, the older man said, “seems like a lot to risk on the whims of a girl you just met, my Prince.”

“I’m right about this, Myles. If we want her to trust us, we have to let her go. Otherwise, she’ll be seeking a way out for as long as she’s with us. She will come back on her own to us. I am sure of it.”

“You may be right. Doesn’t mean you handled this well.” Oberyn shot Myles a imperious look. He was in no mood to be further questioned by his knights. Someone had to be the Prince, godsdammit. His household needed to remember that if they were all going to survive up here. Myles took the look in. “I am at your command of course, my Prince.”

As light broke, his household awakened and prepared themselves to leave, unusually subdued. Ellaria glared at him. He would give them a small, logical concession. Maybe that would ease their fears about leaving Arya behind. “Perros, you will stay here at the house for two days, or until we send a rider back for you sooner. If Princess Arya comes back to Maidenpool, she will find us where she left us, that way.” He met Ellaria’s eyes. “She will come back, Ellaria.” Ellaria did not respond.

They rode out with the sun just peeking through the trees, and Oberyn forced himself not to check back for a rider following them. It could take her a few days to decide to join them, he knew. That’s why Perros would wait. They joined the rest of the Dornish host at the Inn where they stayed, their numbers swelling to close to 30 men and women.

A dun horse with a cloaked rider made its way up next to him. “I’m not agreeing to marry you yet, Oberyn Martell, but I’ll listen to your plan”, came Arya’s voice from beneath the cloak. Oberyn grinned widely. “Ser Daemon!” he called out with a triumphant smile. “Will you go retrieve Lord Perros? It seems the friend we left him to greet has caught up to us on the road.” Daemon rolled his eyes at Oberyn’s smile as he turned his horse back towards Maidenpool. Ellaria still looked like she might kill him in his sleep. But he had been right. And he and the little woman next to him would bring Tywin Lannister to his knees. This would work. They would have their vengeance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who are wondering, YES, both the Sword of the Morning and THE ICE DRAGON are book canon constellations, described exactly as they are here. Bran talks about them in Storm of Swords and Dance with Dragons. Makes you wonder about the eventual likelihood of a scene in the books like what we saw at the end of GoT Season 7...


	7. Chapter 7: Southron Ambitions

Arya got the full plan when they stopped by the road to water the horses and take lunch. Oberyn offered a gallant hand to help her down from her horse. He spoke in a low voice only they could hear. “For now, until you make a final decision, best even my men not ask much about who you are. Shall we have some lunch and talk?”

Arya was surprised that Ellaria was not with them when they strode away from camp. “No Ellaria?”

“Ellaria is…not pleased with me that I let you go out on your own without any protection.”

“I can’t imagine she’s pleased at the idea of you marrying me, either.”

“No”, said Oberyn, as he sat on the grass. “No, that’s not the problem. She’s just concerned for you. She has a large heart, and she feels you need a mother more than you need a husband. But Ellaria and I are not jealous of each other’s lovers.”

 _Lovers_. Arya must have made a face at the word, because Oberyn chuckled. “Well, that’s the first part of my plan you didn’t stick around to hear, Arya Stark! I’m not asking you to be my lover, not right now…unless that appeals to you. I’m asking you only to be my wife.”  
Now Arya found herself annoyed. “Spare me the riddles, Viper. What’s your plan?”

“It’s relatively simple, really. We marry, make it all very official and decadent, in a Sept, and a stunning dress for you, and a cloak of protection, and a feast, somewhere between here and Kings Landing. I had planned on Maidenpool, but there are septs between here and there. Duskendale, Rosby. I will make a great show of being completely smitten with you – which shall not be at all difficult, because you are, in fact, very beautiful and intriguing” Arya blushed in spite of herself. “And we will do one of those awful bedding ceremonies they love up here in the North. No Dornishmen will paw at you, but you will be delivered in a shift to a bedchamber with me suitably under-clothed to convince any onlookers, including my own men, that I will take you to bed. Instead, well, I won’t – unless you want me to, I suppose, but I will assume from the running away that you do not find that an appealing prospect at the moment.”

Oberyn paused, as if waiting for a response. “Um, I …no…I…” Arya had absolutely no idea what to say to his…request to share her bed. A demand would be easier to reject. But a request…?

Oberyn reached out, touching her shoulder to calm her. “I do not expect you to, Princess. Inside the room, Ellaria and Daemon will be present to attest that we never lay together. Your maidenhead will stay intact. When all this is done, and you are safe, if you wish, we will have you undergo one of those vile examinations with a maester or a septa, get the marriage annulled, and you will be free to marry whomever you wish. Or no one.”

It was a perfectly reasonable plan, Arya thought, though not one she was expecting, especially not given the Viper’s reputation for being driven primarily for his cock. “So your plan was just for the marriage part? You don’t have a plan for killing the king?”

Oberyn laughed. “have some patience, Princess! We’ve just now gotten through the part that I was planning on telling you before you bolted from the room at the very thought of marrying me.”

Arya looked down. “Sorry about that, I guess.”

Oberyn laughed. “No, I’m sure Ellaria will say that it was good for my ego to be bruised a bit.” Arya had to smirk at that.

“So what’s the plan, then? How do we kill Joffrey, and Cersei, and Ilyn Payne, and the Mountain, and I suppose any Freys or Boltons that are skulking around, and Tywin Lannister…”

“You have an extremely long list of enemies, you know.” Oberyn’s eyes were laughing. “We may need to prioritize just a bit.”

“Joffrey has to die, Oberyn. He’s…it’s not just for me. Not just for my father. He can’t stay king.”

Oberyn knitted his brow as he looked at her. “Princess, I must know. We have heard stories from his sister Myrcella. Is he as cruel as those stories make him seem?”

“Worse.” Arya found herself whispering, and a chill went down her spine when she remembered what the boy had looked like sitting on the Iron Throne, with his bored expression and his cruel, dead emerald eyes. She wasn’t afraid of Joffrey. But he…concerned her. He had hurt her family very efficiently. “He’s not the cruelest person I’ve ever met. The Mountain is crueler. And, I suppose, he’s not the most powerful person I’ve ever met – Tywin Lannister, I’m sure, is still more powerful. Joffrey still fears him. But in combination…” she said something she had never voiced before but had thought often. “He could be the next Mad King, Oberyn. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. He’s…wrong inside. Something’s wrong with him.”

“Tell me. Start at the beginning.” Oberyn’s tone was kind but firm. Arya nodded and began. “It all…I first knew he was more than just a brat that…something was wrong about him when he killed my friend.” It all poured out then. Mycah, and Lady, and Nymeria first. Even the part about throwing the rocks, and about Lady dying, instead of Nymeria. She was surprised when she said that – she hadn’t even told the Hound about throwing the rocks – but Oberyn spurred her on. “You did well, Arya. You saved your wolf. You couldn’t have known the Lannister bitch would be so spiteful to your sister’s wolf.” She was facing away from him now, staring into the forest while she talked, but she felt Oberyn’s hand on her shoulders, encouraging her. When it was all out, ending with the horrifying stories Sandor had told her about Sansa’s treatment in the capital, about the beatings and the humiliation and the threats of rape, she breathed out, feeling as if she’d just run a race. Oberyn rubbed his hands kindly along her back. “We will save your sister. Even if we can kill no one, even if I cannot have my justice, we will get her safe. This I promise to you.”

Arya looked back at him and narrowed her eyes. “Why? Why would she be more important to you than what you came here to do?”

  
Oberyn shrugged. “I am a knight. I’m sworn to protect the innocent, women, and children. The heads of the Mountain and the Old Lion will bring me some peace, but they will not bring my sister and her children back to me. Sansa still breathes. She can still have a life, be happy. The living must come before the dead. I have waited seventeen years for my vengeance. I can wait a few more, if it means that an innocent girl is saved.” He smirked and pushed her arm playfully. “Why do you think it’s taken me so long? I keep getting distracted by quests to save innocent maids from peril. And then sometimes having torrid love affairs with them and getting sidetracked even further.” He grinned at her. “Though from what I understand, your prim and proper sister would be rather horrified if I proposed a torrid love affair just after I married her little sister.”

Arya laughed at the joke, imagining Sansa’s horrified face if Oberyn proposed such a thing. But Oberyn’s words had unsettled her. Of course he was right. Saving Sansa was the most important thing. It was the same thing her father would have said. Oberyn stated the priorities so simply, and he wasn’t even talking about his own kin. And yet, if she had never run into Daemon at the inn, if she’d continued on as she’d planned, left the Hound, gone to Braavos…she hadn’t been planning to go save Sansa. All she had wanted was Joffrey’s head. She had been so selfish. And she hated that she knew that if it had been Bran, or Robb, or gods forbid, Jon, who had been captive there, she would have done more to save them. And she felt ashamed.

“We can’t just take Sansa with us. She’s a Lannister now. We’d start a war.”

“We would, it’s true. Certainly, stealing away fair maidens from their husbands – or even their betrotheds – has been known to start a war or two. Killing the Mountain and the Old Lion are acts of war too, if not done properly. And killing the king is the greatest crime of all! But let me teach you, Arya, the first rule of the game of thrones: Whoever has the power, makes the rules.”

“We don’t have any power.”

“Not yet. But we will.”

“How?”

“With allies, my sweet girl. That is what I do, Arya. What I will teach you to do! We will make friends. We will build a family. And soon, Tywin Lannister will find that, lion though he may be, he is surrounded by wolves, and falcons, and trout and suns and roses and stags. Maybe even a kraken, or a lion or two of our own, allied to our side. And a Dragon. And that is when we shall have him.”

  
Arya ran through the sigils in her head. Almost a year on the road made it easy. “You mean to bring the rest of the great houses along with us and against the Lannisters.” She thought for a moment…” wait. What do you mean Dragons?”

Oberyn chuckled knowingly. “If the Dragons come to our party, it will not be for a few years yet. But rest assured that when they do, they will hate Tywin Lannister as much as we do.”

Arya’s eyes opened wide. “You mean Daenerys Targaryen. They say she has dragons. Real, living dragons.” She knew her voice held an ridiculous tone of awe. She sounded like a child. But… _dragons_. Real, living, breathing dragons.

Oberyn smiled. “As I said, a few years yet before we can know for sure if the rumors are true and bring her to our fold. Arya looked at him and saw reflected in them a similar wonder. “Yes, Princess. Dragons. And we have until we see them to convince the other houses to be ready for her when she comes.”

“How?”

“The first great family we shall persuade shall be the roses of Highgarden. The Tyrells are old friends of mine.” He paused. “Well, that’s not entirely true. Mace Tyrell hates me. He might try to have me killed when he sees me. But his mother loves me, and that is likely more important.”

“I…all right. I don’t know much about the Tyrells, so I suppose I’ll have to trust your judgement.”

Oberyn’s hand had been rubbing Arya’s back during their conversation. She had barely noticed it. Then, that hand snuck around her shoulders and pulled her gently against him. Arya sucked in a breath in surprise, but found the embrace oddly calming. He whispered in her ear. “Yes, my Princess. You and I will go to Kings Landing. We will find our allies. We will build our family. We will slay the mad king. And then, you and I shall help rule the seven kingdoms, while we wait for the dragons to come.”

Arya felt a little thrill run down her spine as Oberyn's lips lingered near her ear. And for the first time, she felt that the game of thrones might be a game worth playing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very sorry for the delay - I had some serious writers block on the transition/exposition I needed to write before the story really gets going! For those of you who are also reading Only Them, I'm working on a similar issue in that story, but I'm getting through it, it should be out soon.
> 
> Dragons are cool.


	8. Chapter 8: Not That Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ok, I'm finally updating, been working on this forever, and figured I'd just post it, since people have been asking. I'm trying not to make the perfect the enemy of the good. This is a set-up, Arya-focused chapter.

Oberyn had settled on Duskendale for their wedding. A big enough town for there to be both a septon serving the ruling family and one serving the townsfolk; Tywin Lannister was likely to want the heads of any noble who allowed Oberyn and Arya to marry under his roof, and he certainly did not want to cause needless deaths. No, they would avail themselves of Lord Rykker’s hospitality, but would marry in the town, not in the castle sept, with a nice, fat, hopefully drunk village septon who could make himself scarce into the ranks of the lesser members of the Faith should Tywin Lannister send the Mountain’s men calling on Duskendale in retribution for allowing Oberyn and Arya’s wedding. Hopefully, he could restrain Tywin Lannister politically from bringing anyone to harm, but he had learned long ago not to trust that man to stay his hand. 

A wedding. There was much to plan. Of course, the ceremony of the whole thing did not much matter, not in truth, so long as the formalities were followed, and it was witnessed by a sufficient number of people. But Oberyn _liked_ weddings. He had never intended to have one of his own, of course, not since he was just a little older than Arya, and the world had fallen apart around him. But before everything had become so terrible, Elia’s wedding to Rhaegar had been like something out of a storybook, all swirling dancers and fancy dinners and men in armor. And he had been young, recently knighted, unbetrothed, and gorgeous, flitting between women – Elia had begged him not to offend the delicate sensibilities of the Northern Lords by openly flirting with the men, so he’d had to flirt with them in private. Prince Rhaegar had been strong and beautiful, his mad father had been mostly out of sight, and Queen Rhaella had looked radiant and happy for the first time in years. It had been, for a moment, like the rot at the center of the kingdom was something they would survive.

Of course, this time he wouldn’t be flitting between women, and what’s more, he was marrying a girl who apparently hated weddings and dresses and beautiful things, which dampened the fun just a bit. Still, he decided his goal for the evening was simple – gain as many true smiles and laughs out of his hardened little bride as he possibly could.

Oberyn was keenly aware that he had yet to see Arya’s true smile or heard her true laugh, the kind offered freely and without holding back. He had seen flashes of happiness from her when they sparred, or at least flashes of pride in herself. But never a true, carefree smile. He mentioned this to Ellaria as they lay in their bed at the dirty little inn they had found to stay in between Maidenpool and Duskendale. They would ride hard the next day and should be able to reach Lord Rykker’s keep by sundown.

Ellaria had accepted Oberyn’s apologies for his behavior the day Arya had fled him. There had been a fair amount of pleading and humility involved, and a very giving night in bed, but now she lay curled against him, his hands carding through her curls as they both came down from the pleasures they had just given each other. He loved Ellaria. No matter how many other women and men shared his bed, she had been the one who had saved him, tamed him, made him a father and not just a man who had sired daughters.

“Have you ever seen her smile, my love? Truly smile?” Oberyn asked into Ellaria’s hair.

“No. You understand that’s why I wanted her in Dorne. Why I still want her in Dorne. To see a girl Elia and Obella’s age who never laughs…she makes me sad, Oberyn. She breaks my heart.”

“She won’t go, darling. And if she did, what is for her there? Strangers? Do you think she is a girl who can be healed by the kindness of only strangers?”

“We are strangers to her too, Oberyn, don’t forget.”

“It’s true, for now. But we are taking her to family. And…at least I am not a stranger to her hardship, her pain. Send her to play with our girls and she will be surrounded by happy children, with fathers and mothers and brothers who live, and dote on them. She is not such a child, and I imagine it would sadden her greatly to be among children like that. She is a woman, one who has known more pain than even I have.”

Ellaria was quiet for a while. “Do you want her, Oberyn? Do you want her to be your wife for true, wedded and bedded and bearing you trueborn daughters?” It was an unspoken agreement between most who knew Oberyn to speak of any children he might have as girls. After eight in a row, when he longed for a son, it had become too poignant to contemplate.

Oberyn turned Ellaria around to face him. “I don’t know, my love. Such a thing could grow, in time, if she wishes it. She is certainly intriguing.”

“And she can be your partner in this foolish game you and Doran insist on playing where I never can be.” said Ellaria softly, filling in what he had not said. “We have our agreements my darling. I do not mind if you bed her and make her your wife for true someday, if she wants it.”

Oberyn searched Ellaria’s eyes for any hint of discomfort, and though he found none, he still felt the need to reassure her. “I _know_ this is different than the other women, and different than Daemon, Ellaria. I am marrying in two days. It would be foolish to say that will not change things between us in public. And if you wish me to leave Arya and annul this marriage when this is all over, I will hold her at arms-length.” He took Ellaria’s face in his two hands and kissed her soundly, resting his forehead on hers. “You are the mother of my children, both those you bore and those you did not. You saved my life, my soul. Whatever you ask in this, I will give you happily.”

Ellaria pushed him back playfully, her tinkling laughter ringing out in the cold air of the room. “You worry altogether too much, my Prince. When have I ever been a jealous woman? And I do not pine for you _so_ painfully that I cannot bear for you not to have your hands all over me in public.” Oberyn laughed and sighed. “Not anymore you don’t. There was a time, before the girls…” he grabbed at her ass playfully and they laughed. Oberyn pulled Ellaria against his chest and sighed.

“Arya isn’t going to let me do that, is she? Grab her in public and kiss her.”

“I would not imagine so, no.”

He smirked. “I may have to talk her into it occasionally to keep up appearances. I am known to be the great lecher of Sunspear, after all. Do you think she’s ever been kissed? Ever been flirted with or courted by someone whose affections she genuinely desires?”

“I don’t think so, no. She is young, and besides, nothing seems to scare her more than intimacies.” Ellaria met his eyes, then narrowed her own. “Don’t get that look in your eye. You’re thinking of this as a challenge! Leave the poor girl alone unless she comes to you.”

Oberyn put his hands up in mock surrender. “I will! I will! I just want so badly to see her smile, Ellaria. To hear what her laugh really sounds like. I have a feeling that once I do, I’ll never be able to get enough of it.

“Nor will I, I think.”

“If she won’t let me sweep her off her feet in this sham of a wedding, I’ll at least try to make her smile. Maybe I can get one or two out of her.”

“I’ll try as well.”

Oberyn grinned at her, and they slipped off to sleep after that and rode for Duskendale the next morning.

 

Arya had found that the Dornish tended to sleep in when left to their own devices. Her mother would have hated them, and her father would have frowned. Practical Ned and Catelyn Stark were usually up at dawn, with days packed with their duties until well past nightfall, when they tucked the children into bed. Arya had never been much for sleeping in either. Indeed, she was not much for sleeping these days. She rarely got more than a few hours of sound sleep a night without being plagued by nightmares – her father’s head tumbling from the block, dead direwolves, the fire and chaos of the Red Wedding. The worst were the things she saw the Mountain do, and she hated herself for being the most thrown by those dreams. The Mountain had never hurt her directly. She felt, somehow, that it was wrong to wake up screaming from the images of him and his men killing her friends and raping women she didn’t even know. It felt somehow that the worst of her fears, her anger, her grief, should be reserved for her family. And yet it was the horrors of the road that most often woke her in the nights. She couldn’t seem to rid herself of that weakness no matter how much she tried to convince herself not to think about it.

And so, after waking yet again in a cold sweat in the small room she had been given in Lord Rykker’s keep, Arya wandered among the mostly quiet corridors as dawn was just starting to peek through the rainclouds outside. Rain on her wedding day. Sansa used to despair at this possibility, in the never-ending games of “wedding” that Sansa would force Arya into occasionally with Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassel, pretending it started raining and ruining all their dresses was one of Arya’s favorite ways to make them shriek. Once, she’d conspired with Theon and Robb to have them waiting in a tree in the godswood with pails of water that they poured on the girls. Jon was always too somber for pranks but...the happy memory faded away bitterly in her mind. None of them were here. Robb was dead, and Theon had betrayed Winterfell. He’d probably killed poor Beth Cassel himself. And heaven knows where Jeyne Poole had ended up after Ned Stark’s execution. No, she would be walked down the aisle by a man she’d known for a fortnight to another man she’d known for just five days.

She wandered into the sitting room where the Dornish women had stayed up late the night before finishing preparations for the wedding. She had insisted, over and over, that she didn’t need anything at all, that she didn’t want anything fancy. But they insisted that she at least needed the basic things one had to have for a wedding – a dress and a maiden’s cloak. She had felt bad about leaving without helping the women the night before; she knew they had planned to stay up quite late until the clothes were finished. But it wasn’t as if Arya’s atrocious stitching would have helped them anyway.

She saw the garments laid out on the table. The dress was dark blue silk, again altered from Jynessa Blackmont’s wardrobe. The designs along the neckline were simple, but Arya couldn’t immediately see what they were supposed to be. Looking closer, she realized they were meant to be snowflakes. The larger ones looked recognizable – six points, symmetrical – but some of the smaller ones had eight points or five or four. She imagined it likely that the Dornishwomen who had sewed it had never seen snowflakes up close. The maidens’ cloak was a simple fur-lined grey – there hadn’t been time to put a direwolf on it. A wedding of two great houses would normally have taken at least weeks to plan, if not months, even Arya knew that. Given how little time Ellaria and her gaggle of peacocks had to prepare, the decorations on the dress were rather sweet. They hadn’t had to do that for her. They were trying to make her happy. Make her feel welcome. And yet the clothes were so clearly _not_ Arya’s. Some of the saddest moments of her life, the ones that had made her feel the most alone, were these – when womenfolk actually _tried_ to make her one of them, tried to be genuinely kind – and yet she always still felt trapped and uncomfortable among them.

She thought about bolting out the door of the keep and riding off into the rain. _No_. she reminded herself. Sansa needed her. Her family needed her. Sansa was being beaten and brutalized in Kings Landing. It would be completely ridiculous to run from the best chance she had to save her simply because she had to wear a dress.

She was still glad when Oberyn and Ellaria emerged from their bedchamber and began buzzing about planning things. Having them around helped quell the incessant itch inside her to get out while she still could. She broke her fast with them, and the first half of the day passed in a whirl of preparation and questions. Arya busied herself with lengthening the shift that Ellaria had provided. The Dornishwomen laughed at her, but if there was going to be a bedding ceremony, Arya was hardly willing to end up in the shift Ellaria had provided, which barely reached her mid-thigh. She settled for sewing a wide band of white muslin onto the bottom to make it at least fall past her knee. Septa Mordane would have been horrified by the way Arya’s stitches wandered this way and that, but she _could_ sew, and having a project stopped the women from bothering her or congratulating her overly much.

The larger Dornish host had only been told who Oberyn’s bride to be actually _was_ the morning of the wedding, and she found herself with a dizzying array of greetings from Dornish Lords and ladies, along with promises of wedding gifts to be procured in Kings Landing or shipped from Dorne. By noon, Arya felt she would die if she remained in the company of sewing, chattering women for even one more second, especially ones making suggestive jokes about her wedding night, and offering advice, which Arya steadfastly declined. She excused herself for the privy and saw out the window that the rain had stopped, and the square in front of the castle was bustling with people. She threw on a hooded cloak, and went off to breathe air as a free, unmarried woman for the last time.

Arya wandered the market square, savoring the feeling of being anonymous, unknown. She found Daemon sitting on the side of a well off the town square in Duskendale, watering his horse. She felt like she wanted to talk to someone who knew Oberyn, someone who could help her figure him out. She’d known Oberyn for five days and she was marrying him. She’d at least known Daemon for a fortnight. With the rate her life was changing, that was an eternity.

Daemon saw her and flashed one of those incredibly winning easy smiles. “Lady Arya, I shall have to bow to you as my liege lady by tomorrow.”  Arya wrinkled her nose. “Please don’t, Ser Daemon. Just call me Arya. I have enough people calling me Princess. I’d be much happier if people would just use my damn name.”

“Feel free to drop my title too then, Arya.” Arya breathed out a sigh of relief. “Not much for formalities, are you? I’m sorry I didn’t drop them earlier. You Northerners can be so prickly about titles, and I didn’t want to offend you on the road.”

“Is that wine or water?” she asked, gesturing to his waterskin. Daemon laughed. “Water! It’s not even noon yet.” His eyes twinkled. “a little nervous?”

“Maybe a little.” Arya admitted. Daemon patted the edge of the well. “What are you worried about? Oberyn? The wedding? The stupid bedding ceremony? Because I’ll carry you myself, I promise it won’t be strange. You’ll just step out of your gown…and I know Ellaria’s found a shift that is sufficiently non-revealing to meet your prudish standards. I’ve seen it. In Dorne, you’d wear it as a dress.”

Arya blushed and he winked at her. She sighed. “No, I trust you on the bedding ceremony.”

“Oberyn, then?”

“I don’t know much about him, Daemon. And I understand even less.”

Daemon laughed. “Oberyn is…many things all at once. Being around him is a bit like staring straight into the sun, trust me, I know. When I first met him…I couldn’t decide whether to run away from him, or towards him, or kill him before he killed me…I settled on fucking him.” He smirked. “I recommend it.” Arya blushed crimson. “Sorry” This game of ‘talk about sex to make the northern girl blush’ will get old for us Dornish eventually.”

“When?” she grumbled.

“Maybe a year or so. Or when you stop blushing so much.” He flashed one of those damned smiles again and ruffled her hair affectionately, and Arya stopped being embarrassed and laughed. “But really Arya, if you’re worried about Oberyn’s intentions, you needn’t be. Oberyn is a good man. He is honest to a fault, he is kind. He lacks common sense and can’t hide his own emotions to save his life, but he will never, ever hurt you.”

That much, oddly, Arya felt she already knew. Which meant she had trouble thinking through what, exactly, she was worried about…until she found herself walking her mind through the wedding vows again. I am his, and he is mine…and then Oberyn would speak…”with this kiss”…she shifted awkwardly. In the face of everything, a sham marriage to a Dornish Prince that she was entering for the purpose of striding into the capital and killing the king…and she was worried about a damn kiss.

“I know Oberyn is a good man. And I know that he’ll act just like he promised after the ceremony, that he won’t be strange or lecherous…I just, it’s all moving very fast and I have to be a _bride_ in a few hours and…”

Daemon smiled at her. “You’re worried about the kiss, aren’t you.”

Arya stood hurriedly. “It’s stupid.” She felt Daemon reach for her wrist softly, and she sat down next to him, eyes fixed on the ground. “It’s not stupid, Arya. Have you never…?”

“No.”

“I promise, it’s not complicated. It’ll be quick, and Oberyn isn’t going to expect anything”. There was humor in his voice, but he wasn’t making fun of her. These damn Dornishmen were so _kind_. It was disconcerting She met his eyes. “It’s just in front of all those _people_. And if I do it wrong…if they laugh…I couldn’t…” she had visions of the whispers of the Dornish crowd about the stupid little ugly Northern girl. She’d never survive that.

Daemon reached down and tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear. “Let me make you an offer” he said seriously. “Just an offer, nothing more, you don’t have to say yes.” His lips twitched slightly. “If you want, I could kiss you here. That way, your first time won’t be in front of all those people.”

“And you’ll tell me if I do anything strange or wrong?” she said, unsure.

He flashed one of those smiles, and Arya told herself that she wasn’t swooning, she didn’t swoon… “Sure. But you won’t.” his face was closer to hers now.

“Do you…do you _want_ to kiss me?” Arya asked, her voice barely over a whisper.

“Of course I want to. Who wouldn’t? You’re beautiful.” Daemon rested his hand at the back of her neck, drawing little designs there with his thumb, and Arya found that too distracting for her to say anything, but she gave him a quick nod. And then, Daemon’s cupped her face in both of his calloused hands and pressed his lips to hers.

She froze for a second, her eyes wide, then she remembered that most of the time people closed them. As soon as she shut them, she felt herself relax as Daemon’s lips moved softly over hers. He tasted like fresh well water, and his lips were warm. She felt herself lean in slightly to the kiss, and then, it was over. He pulled away slowly and Arya felt her cheeks flush again.

“Oberyn won’t mind?” she found herself whispering. All she wanted was to kiss Daemon again, but she forced herself to remember all the reasons that wasn’t smart. She couldn’t let slip that she wanted to. Because surely, he wouldn’t want to, and it would be unbearable.

Daemon chuckled softly. “No, Oberyn won’t mind. He might be sad he missed seeing it, but he won’t mind.”

 _We could always do it again sometime, I wouldn’t mind if he was around…_ , her traitorous brain supplied as the next thing to say. “We could...” she stopped herself before the rest of the stupid sentence left her lips. “uh.” “I didn’t…” she stammered “I didn’t do anything wrong?”

“No, she-wolf, you’re a natural.” Arya blushed red at that. “You should go find the women, Arya. I’m sure they have fittings and other such things for you to do. It’s your wedding day, after all.”

“Th…thank you, Daemon.” Arya mumbled. Then, she stood, and resisted the urge to sprint away. Her insides were on fire with some strange combination of emotions she had never felt before. But at least, she thought, she didn’t feel she had anything to _fear_. And that was new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title is from the Wicked song "I'm not that Girl", which is all about having a total lack of self-confidence about being a different kind of woman surrounded by people who fit the mold. Which is gonna kind of be Arya for this whole fic if she stays in Westeros for the main events instead of peacing out to Braavos.
> 
> The Wedding is next, and then we'll get to Kings Landing, I promise. 
> 
> The comments have been amazing! Thank you all so much for reading :)


End file.
